by Jane Smith
‘Some friend!’ Tommy marvelled.
‘He thought I wouldn’t know who he was with that stupid neckerchief over his face. But I’d know that Irish accent anywhere. And that limp. That was George all right. That was Andrew George Scott.’
Irish accent! Of course; that’s the accent that Tommy had heard. Tommy remembered that the gunman had forced Ludwig to write a note, and then taken the pen and written something himself.
‘What was that note-writing business all about?’ Tommy asked. Ludwig snorted again.
‘He reckons he was doing me a favour. He said that the police would think that I stole the money from the bank. So he made me write that note, telling the police that he did it himself and that I wasn’t to blame. Then he signed the note – but he didn’t sign his real name, of course.’
‘What name did he sign, then?’ Tommy asked.
‘He signed it: Captain Moonlite,’ Ludwig replied. ‘But get this: he spelled it wrongly. He spelled it M-O-O-N-L-I-T-E. George is a clever man. He knows how to spell. Why would he have spelled it that way?’
‘Maybe he was just stressed,’ Tommy suggested. He knew that he often made mistakes in spelling tests. It was the stress, he’d tell himself. In any case, it was only a spelling error. Big deal!
‘No,’ Ludwig said, and shook his head. ‘No, I think he wanted me to think that my attacker was someone uneducated – someone who couldn’t spell. He didn’t want me to know it was him. That’s what I think.’
‘But why would your friend do that to you?’ Tommy asked. He couldn’t imagine ever pointing a gun at Francis or Martin, no matter how annoying they were at times.
‘We fell out,’ Ludwig replied angrily. ‘He’s a bad man. A lying, cheating, greedy so-and-so. And he calls himself a preacher!’
‘No!’ Tommy was shocked. The world seemed to have turned upside down. What a strange world it was, where seventeen-and-a-half-year-olds were bank managers and preachers became armed robbers!
‘Oh yes,’ Ludwig nodded. ‘He’s a lay preacher for the Church of England. But they haven’t paid him yet and he’s short of money. So I guess he thought he’d just help himself to the bank’s gold.’
‘Will you get into trouble from your boss?’ Tommy asked.
‘Surely not!’ Ludwig said, but he looked worried. ‘I’d better go and talk to the police.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘No, I’ll be OK, thanks,’ Ludwig replied. ‘You’ve done enough for me tonight. No need to get caught up any more in this.’ Then he looked at Tommy curiously. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t you be at home? What’s a young boy doing out at this time of night?’
‘I’ll be off, then,’ Tommy cut in quickly. He didn’t want to explain how he happened to be there. No one would ever believe him! Ludwig Bruun shook Tommy’s hand and thanked him, and trotted back down the road to the police station. Soon the teenager had disappeared into the darkness. Tommy was eager to get back to Martin and tell him all about the evening’s adventures, but something about this whole business made him uneasy. He was worried for Ludwig, who was seventeen and a half, and a bank manager, but who seemed as frail as a child. Tommy decided to stick around until morning.
Since he had discovered the hat, Tommy had spent many nights camping out under the stars. He was getting used to sleeping on a hard ground with no pillow or blanket.
He couldn’t say he enjoyed it, but in most of his adventures, being out in the bush – with Combo standing guard and the fresh air and the sounds of the outback all around him – had a special charm that made up for the discomfort.
This time it was different. This time he was sleeping rough in the town while the rest of the folk of Mt Egerton slumbered cosily in their beds, and this time a creepy guy with a gun who called himself ‘Captain Moonlite’ was on the loose. Every time an owl hooted or a possum scampered up a tree, Tommy woke in fright. To add to the fear was the biting cold that made his nose and ears numb. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get frostbite, Tommy grumbled to himself.
He was pleased when the first glimmers of sun appeared on the horizon. He slept then, glad of the warmth and the sense of safety that daylight brings.
It must have been almost noon when Tommy’s hollow stomach woke him. What a fool he’d been, rushing back to the past before he and Martin had eaten dinner! He could really do with some noodles now. Or a burger. Fish and chips, maybe. Anything, in fact!
He couldn’t think until he had something to eat. He scrambled out from under the bush where he’d slept, when something caught his eye: something red fluttering from the bare branch of a tree. Tommy looked closer: it was the neckerchief that the bank robber had been wearing! He must have dropped it there after the robbery. Tommy stuffed the cloth into his pocket and walked the last few metres back out onto the street.
The dusty road was lively with people now: bonneted ladies and whiskered men, just as he’d imagined it only the night before when he had walked along the street with Martin. He followed his nose, which led him to a shop where bread was baking. With his mouth watering, he scampered into the bakery. He was about to ask for a loaf when dismay hit him. He had no money!
The lady behind the counter smiled kindly at him. ‘You look hungry, lad,’ she said.
Tommy could only nod dumbly in reply. The lady took a bun off a tray and handed it to him with a wink.
‘There, now, off you go,’ she said.
Gratefully, he stuffed the bun into his mouth. He guessed that the lady thought he was a homeless orphan; he probably looked like it, with his hair full of grass and his clothes all dirty and rumpled. Tommy didn’t mind. The bun tasted like Heaven. He was heading back out the door with a mouth full of bun, when a man burst into the shop. He was well-dressed and middle-aged, with fair hair and angry blue eyes.
‘It’s an outrage!’ the man shouted, shaking his fists. He spoke with a heavy foreign accent.
‘What is it, Mr Bruun?’ the kind lady behind the counter asked.
Bruun! That was Ludwig’s surname! Tommy stopped and turned back in to the shop. The man was pacing and breathing heavily.
‘Zere was an armed robbery at ze bank last night!’ he shouted. ‘My son was held up at gunpoint!’
The lady tried to calm him down. ‘I heard the news,’ she told him. ‘It’s all over town. It’s a terrible business; we all feel sorry for poor Ludwig.’
‘No, no, you don’t understand!’ Mr Bruun cried. ‘Zey have arrested my son! My Ludwig!’
‘But he was the victim!’ Tommy cried. Bits of bun sprayed from his mouth and he tried to catch them and stuff them back in. He didn’t want to waste any of it. The man spun around and saw Tommy for the first time.
‘Vot do you know of zis?’ he demanded.
‘I saw it,’ Tommy replied. ‘I saw the man pointing a gun at him.’
The man’s mouth fell open. ‘And you vill tell ze police?’ he said. ‘You vill tell zem zat my Ludwig iss no robber?’
‘Sure,’ said Tommy. ‘Lead the way.’
Mr Bruun grabbed Tommy’s arm and marched him out the door. They strode down the road, Tommy trotting to keep up with Mr Bruun, who was almost tearing his arm out of its socket. At last they came to a building with the sign ‘POLICE STATION’ above the door. The man dragged Tommy inside. A man in a blue uniform with shiny buttons was sitting behind a desk. When he saw Mr Bruun, he rose with a frown.
‘Police!’ Mr Bruun nudged Tommy. ‘Tell ze Constable Monckton vot you saw!’
The policeman looked Tommy up and down. Tommy felt suddenly awkward. He knew he looked terrible; his clothes were dirty and his hair was matted with grass, and he probably had bits of chewed bun on his chin. But he pulled himself together and tried to tell the policeman what he had seen.
When he came to the end of the story he said in a small voice, ‘So Ludwig didn’t steal the gold from the bank. You have arrested the wrong man … Sir.’
The policeman leaned against his desk with folded arms and looked dow
n his nose at the scruffy boy. ‘I see,’ he said. His voice was icy. ‘So you think you know all about policing then, do you?’
‘No, no, Constable Monckton … Sir …’ Tommy said. ‘But …’
‘But? I suppose you can tell me who the robber really was?’
‘Yes!’ Tommy replied eagerly. ‘Yes, his name is Andrew George Scott!’
‘Aha,’ the Constable smiled but his grin was not friendly. ‘Andrew George Scott, the preacher.’
‘That’s right!’
The policeman shook his head and glared at Tommy. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Ludwig has already accused the preacher. We went straight to Scott’s home last night and surprised him as he was getting ready for bed. He’d just come back from Melbourne and was very upset to hear of these outrageous accusations from his friend.’
‘But it’s true!’ Tommy shouted.
‘Stop wasting my time,’ the Constable hissed. ‘You filthy urchin. Go! Out! Shoo!’
The policeman herded Tommy and Mr Bruun out the door. Ludwig’s father’s voice was thick with tears as he parted with Tommy. The old man shook Tommy’s hand and vowed, ‘Ve vill fight this!’
Tommy was hot with rage. As he stomped away from the police station, a thought came to him. He would help Ludwig fight it. But to do that he needed a cool head. And to keep a cool head, he needed the help of a friend who was wise and calm. He needed to go back and fetch Martin. There was no time to waste; he yanked the hat off his head and disappeared.
Martin could tell that something was up.
‘You’ve been back to the past again, haven’t you?’ he asked. The boys were still out on the dark, deserted street just as they had been when Tommy left.
Tommy nodded. ‘Martin, you’ve got to come back with me!’ he said. Then he told his friend the whole story.
Martin listened in silence and, when Tommy was finished, he stayed silent a little longer. Tommy could tell that he was struggling; Martin didn’t like the danger of travelling to the past – but he could always be counted on to help a friend.
At last he sighed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But can we just get those takeaways first?’
Tommy laughed. He’d forgotten that Martin hadn’t eaten. Come to think of it, he was still pretty hungry too. The boys found a noodle shop and bought enough to feed an army. They took the feast back to the motel to share with Tommy’s dad, who was still busy at work and had hardly noticed that they were gone. After dinner, they decided to wait until morning to return to the past and, with that, they went to bed.
Next morning, the boys had breakfast in their rooms: toast and jam and little packets of cornflakes and orange juice, all laid out for them on a tray and left by their door by the motel manager. It was quite a treat to sit at the little motel table together – just Tommy and Martin – and eat their breakfast. When they had finished and brushed their teeth, they got ready to go.
Tommy combed his hair and washed his face, in the hope that looking clean might make people take him more seriously. They put some muesli bars in their pockets – that was Martin’s idea, and Tommy thought it an excellent one – and Martin took his smartphone. Then Tommy picked up his hat, and Martin put on his socks and pulled his old leather knee-high boots out of his suitcase. Then on the count of three, Tommy slapped the hat onto his head and Martin slipped his feet into the boots – and they were off!
They found themselves back out on the street. Horse-drawn carts clattered along the dirt track, and men strode about in old-fashioned suits and hats. Clearly they were back in the past … but the place seemed different from before.
‘What is it?’ Martin wanted to know. Tommy frowned, trying hard to work out what had changed. Then it came to him: the air was fresh and sweet, not sharp with chimney smoke as it had been on his last visit. And the trees that lined the street were no longer bare, but bright with red and yellow leaves, and the sun shone gentle and warm. When he had come back before, it had been almost winter; now summer had only just ended. He had returned at a different time of year. Maybe even a different year.
How long had passed? Tommy wondered. It couldn’t have been long; the shops on each side of the road seemed much the same.
‘Martin,’ he said. ‘Check your phone. Let’s see what the date is.’
Martin pulled his phone out of his pocket and woke it up. He jabbed at the screen a few times and frowned. ‘It’s gone weird,’ he said. ‘No internet.’
Tommy sighed. He hadn’t thought of that: mobile coverage probably wasn’t great back in the nineteenth century.
As Martin tucked his phone back into his pocket, Tommy saw a familiar face.
‘Mr Bruun!’ he cried. Dragging Martin after him, he ran up to the man who was stepping out of the bakery.
‘Tommy Bell!’ the man replied. ‘Good day.’
Tommy introduced Martin. He was almost too afraid to ask how Ludwig was; what if he was in jail? But the old man brought the subject up himself. ‘You must come and see my boy, Ludwig,’ he said. Tommy exhaled in relief. So he wasn’t in jail, then. But Ludwig’s father went on: ‘He iss very troubled, my boy.’
The boys followed Mr Bruun down the road to his home. It was a neat little timber cottage with a verandah and a chimney and a pretty garden. Mr Bruun led them inside and into a cosy but dim little lounge room. In the shadows, a young man rose to greet them. It was Ludwig. Tommy was shocked to see how he had changed: his smooth pale cheeks were now bearded, and his face was paler than ever. There were dark smudges under his worried blue eyes.
His greeting was friendly but his voice was tired. ‘It’s been a long time, Tommy,’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ Tommy replied. ‘Remind me … exactly when was the robbery?’
‘Eighth of May, 1869,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Almost three years ago.’
Three years! Tommy wondered what had happened in all that time.
‘I suppose you heard that they arrested me,’ Ludwig said, and Tommy nodded. ‘The police thought that I’d stolen the gold and made up the whole story about the armed robber. They also arrested my friend the schoolteacher, James Simpson.’
‘But why?’ Tommy asked. ‘Why would they think you did that?’
Ludwig shrugged. ‘I suppose my story was a bit confused. I was so terrified! I got a few of my facts muddled up when I was telling the police about it. There were no rope marks on my wrists so they didn’t even believe that I’d been tied up. And the note – remember the note? They said that the writing looked like James Simpson’s. They thought we cooked up the whole thing so we could get money from the bank and blame it on Scott. Why would I do that? I had a good job; I didn’t need to steal money! He’s the one who needed money!’
Ludwig was pacing around the room and his pale face had flushed a deep red. He clutched at his hair, making it stick straight out in straw-like spikes. Poor Ludwig, Tommy thought. He’s a mess.
Mr Bruun hushed his son and told him to sit down.
‘The case went to court,’ Mr Bruun said, pouring Ludwig and the boys cups of tea. ‘But zey found my Ludwig not guilty.’
‘Well, that’s great, then!’ Tommy cried, and Martin agreed.
‘But it iss not over,’ the old man continued. ‘My Ludwig hass suffered terribly. Hiss reputation has been spoiled. Ze man who did ziss to him must pay for it!’
Just then there was a knock on the door.
‘Ah,’ Mr Bruun said, as if he had been expecting a visitor.
He marched to the door and came back with his guest. The newcomer was snappily dressed in a suit and waistcoat with a silver watch-chain across his chest. He had a thick moustache that was waxed to a point at each end.
Mr Bruun introduced the stranger. ‘Zis is ze private detective zat ve have hired to investigate ze crime,’ he told the boys. ‘Hiss name iss Mr George Sly.’
Tommy held back a snort. A private detective called Sly? He tried not to meet Martin’s eye; it would be rude to laugh.
‘Mr Sly hass d
iscovered many evil things about Captain Moonlite.’
The detective sat down, sipped at his tea, and began the story. George Scott, he told them, had been furious when the court had freed Ludwig. He had accused Ludwig of damaging his reputation.
‘He came to my house!’ Mr Bruun interrupted. ‘He came and threatened to horsewhip my boy if he did not apologise! Imagine that! He expected my Ludwig to apologise to him!’
Mr Sly waited for Mr Bruun to calm down before he went on. ‘But the people of Mt Egerton trusted Ludwig more than they trusted Scott. He feared that the law would get onto him, so he left town.’
Mr Bruun snorted again. ‘Sailed to Fiji! Lived ze high life: parties, drink, travel!’
‘It’s true,’ Mr Sly nodded. ‘He spent up big. He spent more than he had, in fact; he paid with some forged cheques.’
‘And then,’ Ludwig cut in, ‘then he went to Sydney and sold 129 ounces of gold!’
Tommy and Martin gasped.
‘Now, I ask you: where did he get that gold?’ Mr Sly went on. ‘From robbing Ludwig’s bank, of course!’
‘Where is he now?’ Martin asked.
‘He was arrested for the false cheques and he spent 16 months behind bars.’
‘Some of it in the lunatic asylum,’ Ludwig muttered.
‘That is correct,’ Mr Sly said. ‘He pretended to be mad in order to escape jail. But he didn’t last long there; they could tell he was faking. The superintendent said that he was …’ Mr Sly pulled out a sheaf of paper from his pocket and placed a pair of glasses on his nose. Then, reading from the paper, he finished, ‘… said he was “an artful designing and unprincipled criminal ready to join in any scheme of fraud or ruffianly violence that had a chance of success.”’
‘Blimey,’ said Tommy.
‘But he hass still not paid for ze bank robbery!’ Mr Bruun cried.
‘I am gathering evidence,’ Mr Sly said, ‘to convict him.’
