Ian shook his head and said, ‘You have to do the right thing, Alec. This design belongs to Miss Penrose and you know it.’
‘Yes,’ Alec agreed. ‘But what if this was the reason Penrose died?’
Ian stared at him and his lips moved silently. He swallowed. ‘Murder?’
The word fell into the silence between them. The word that had been nagging at Alec since Will’s death.
‘It’s worth a fortune—more than a fortune. Enough to kill for. Enough for me to consider …’
‘Stealing it?’
Alec nodded.
Ian paced the room. He stopped at the table and laid a hand on the plans. ‘On the day he died, Penrose came to his uncle’s office. They argued. They had their backs to me so I couldn’t see what was said but is it possible that if the discrepancies were starting to show before he died, Penrose suspected something?’ He tapped the plans. ‘And now this. It seems to me there are at least two good reasons why someone would want Will Penrose dead.’
The brothers stared at each other. ‘Why didn’t you say something at the inquest?’ Alec asked.
Ian shrugged. ‘What could I say? I didn’t hear what was said. Besides, what court takes the testimony of a deaf man seriously?’
‘Ian—’ Alec began but his brother dismissed him with the wave of the hand. It was old well-trodden ground.
‘Does anyone know you’ve got the plans?’ Ian said.
‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Alec, you have to tell Miss Penrose. Not just about the design but also the missing gold from the Shenandoah.’
Alec grimaced as he imagined that conversation. He picked up the pencil and wrote, ‘Of course you’re right, but what can she do about it? She has no interest in the Shenandoah, Penrose left it to Cowper.’ He looked up from the notepad. He’d seen Cowper in action, seen the cold-blooded way he had swooped on the shareholdings in the Blue Sailor after the disastrous fires of the previous year. He would stop at nothing to get hold of something he coveted and it stood to reason he coveted the successful Shenandoah and, if he knew about it, Will’s plan for the boiler.
His blood ran cold. The man could be ruthless, but would he resort to theft and murder?
He shut both ledgers with a decisive thump. ‘This is all speculation,’ he wrote. ‘You’re talking about our livelihoods, mine and yours. We can’t be a party to any further conversations like this. We both have jobs to do and we have to get on and do them without asking questions.’
‘Penrose was your friend—’ Ian began.
‘This is none of our business, Ian. You shouldn’t have involved yourself. Pack those ledgers away. You have to get them back to the office before Cowper notices them missing.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ Ian said. ‘He is stealing gold from the Shenandoah.’
Alec turned on his brother, seizing him by the forearms and looking straight into his eyes. ‘Ian, if Cowper even suspects we know what he is doing, we’ll be out of here with no jobs, no references. I have to think about what’s best for you and me.’
Ian shook off his brother’s hands. ‘And what about you? These plans belong to Eliza Penrose. The eighth commandment—’
‘Don’t quote God and commandments at me,’ Alec wrote, the lead in the pencil snapping in his anger.
‘Will Penrose is dead. You owe it to him to do right by his sister,’ Ian said and Alec recognised the stubborn cast to his brother’s mouth. Ian’s sense of right and wrong had got him into trouble before now.
‘How do I make you understand? If Will died for the boiler plans or, if he suspected Cowper of stealing his gold, we may end up in the cemetery as surely as Penrose did.’
Ian’s eyes widened as realisation dawned. ‘Cowper? Surely you don’t think …’ Ian paused. ‘Are you saying you think Cowper killed—’
‘I’m not saying anything, but where money is at the heart of a crime, lives don’t matter.’
‘But Cowper—’
Alec shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Ian. I don’t think Cowper himself is a killer, but there are men on these goldfields who are and, for the right price, would think nothing of pushing a man down a tailings heap.’
The colour drained from Ian’s face. Ian, who only saw goodness in his fellow human beings.
Alec laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, but Ian shook it off and went into his bedroom without another word, shutting the door behind him.
Alec stared at the closed door for a long moment, cursing his blunt talk. With a heavy sigh he turned away and fetched the whisky bottle. He set it on the table along with a glass and stared at it. Ian was right, he couldn’t keep reaching for the bottle every time a problem became too hard.
A door creaked and he looked around. Ian stood in the doorway to his bedroom.
‘Pour me a glass.’
The brothers sat across from each other with the whisky bottle and Ian’s notebook and a newly sharpened pencil between them. From the tight lines around Ian’s mouth, Alec knew his brother was exhausted.
‘I’m sorry,’ Alec wrote. ‘I spoke bluntly.’
‘Do you really think Penrose’s death may not have been accidental?’
Alec shrugged. ‘I am beginning to have my suspicions.’
‘Is Miss Penrose in danger?’
Alec blew out a breath. ‘No.’
‘You—we—have to help her.’ To emphasise his point, Ian tugged at Alec’s cuff.
‘You.’ Alec poked his brother in the chest. ‘Do nothing. Keep your head down, do your job, ask no questions. Understood?’
Ian sat back. ‘So you are going to help her?’
Alec mirrored his brother’s posture. ‘Do I have a choice?’
Ian shook his head. He took a sip of the whisky, pulled a face and pushed the glass toward Alec. ‘I will make copies of the ledger entries,’ he said. ‘Keep them with the plans.’ He reached for the ledgers. ‘And you have to tell her about the plans or you are no better than Cowper.’
Alec tipped the remnants of Ian’s whisky into his glass and stared morosely into the whisky’s beguiling amber depths. ‘When the time is right.’
He looked up at his brother. If looks could kill, Ian had just consigned him to the depths of hell.
Nine
24 June 1873
The door of the school house creaked as Eliza pushed it open to reveal a large vestibule with rows of hooks running along the wall. She took a breath as she stepped inside, inhaling the musty scent of chalk dust and unwashed bodies. The main room had been equipped with rows of desks with attached benches, each seating four children. By her reckoning, the schoolroom could accommodate fifty children at desks with a further row of benches at the front for another twenty.
A large blackboard dominated the end of the room where the head teacher’s desk stood on a raised platform. A map of the world had been pinned to the wall between the high windows and two fireplaces stood on opposite sides of the room about halfway along. A second teacher’s desk had been placed at the rear of the room.
Flora Donald stood at the head teacher’s desk, studying a ledger and tapping a long, flexible cane in her hand.
‘Good morning,’ Eliza said.
The woman started and closed the book with a thump. ‘Good morning, Miss Penrose.’ Flora Donald set the cane down on the desk. ‘I’ve considered the curriculum and consulted the board. We are agreed, you will only be required three days a week to teach the senior classes arithmetic and natural science. That will be Tuesday all day and Wednesday and Thursday mornings.’
‘I see. Are you sure you do not wish me to do more?’ Eliza’s hopes for earning sufficient money to stand on her own feet and not be reliant on her uncle’s charity were fading.
‘On the other days, I will have the assistance of the pupil teacher, Agnes Mackie. She is hoping to gain her certification in teaching next year. As it stands for a school this size, the rules allow one assistant and one pupil teacher and the pupil teacher is che
aper, but there may be days you will be needed, if you can make yourself available.’
‘I have no other commitments.’ Eliza hoped she didn’t sound too eager.
Flora Donald pointed to the second tall desk at the rear of the classroom. ‘Your desk will be that one.’ She turned and indicated a door behind her, ‘The head teacher’s office is through there. That’s where Mr Emerton kept the supplies, such as they are. If you require anything you are to ask me for it and I shall see whether we have it.’
Eliza’s footsteps echoed as she walked the length of the room. She stopped before the head teacher’s desk and looked up at Flora. There were times she felt her lack of inches and this was one of them, as Flora Donald towered over her from her position on the platform. Eliza squared her shoulders, swallowed her pride and forced a smile.
‘Miss Donald, I fear that you may have formed an unfavourable opinion of me and I would very much like us to set whatever differences there are between us to one side.’
‘You’re mistaken, Miss Penrose. I have not known you long enough to have formed any opinion of you whatsoever.’
‘If we cannot be friends, then I would like us to be able to work together for the sake of bringing learning to the children of this town.’
Flora’s mouth twitched. ‘That is an admirable sentiment.’
Eliza wondered what it would take to break down the woman’s antipathy. ‘Please be assured, Miss Donald, I have no interest in assuming the role of head teacher. You are in a much better position than I to fulfil that responsibility, but the truth is, I have no one to support me and as my brother has left me nothing, I must find my own employment. I am quite content to help you for as long as I am needed.’
‘Aye, well, your brother’s death was a tragedy and it must have been a terrible shock to you.’ Did Eliza detect a small degree of unbending in Flora’s expression? ‘In the circumstances you are holding yourself together bravely, Miss Penrose. We shall see how you manage for a couple of weeks and perhaps the matter can be revisited with the Board of Advice.’
‘Thank you. I would be grateful.’ Eliza smiled. ‘Now that our relative positions are understood, can you explain the curriculum to me?’
‘Under the new Education Act, our curriculum is clearly set out and quite simple. Reading, spelling and explanation, writing and dictation, arithmetic, grammar, geography, needlework for the girls and when we have time and the weather is fine, we undertake military drills and gymnastics in the yard.’
Eliza nodded. ‘I enjoy teaching arithmetic but if that is your preference—’
‘No,’ Flora said with an alacrity that indicated that mathematics was not her preference. ‘I would be delighted for you to assume that responsibility, particularly with the older children. I enjoy teaching writing and dictation.’
And the military drills, no doubt, Eliza thought ungraciously.
Flora spent some time going through the roll book with Eliza, a very instructive exercise as each child’s graded mark was recorded in meticulous detail. The names meant little to Eliza, apart from one Agnes Mackie, age fifteen, who seemed to excel at everything and was the logical choice for a pupil teacher.
Dark clouds were rolling in as Eliza left the school. The cold wind blew dry leaves around her ankles as she stood looking up at the forbidding mass of the Maiden’s Creek Mine tailings, which cascaded down from the workings on the far side of the creek. Will had died on that mountain of loose rocks. As she stared at it, one question repeated in her mind: Why?
She pulled her shawl tighter around her neck and shoulders and turned back to the town and the warmth of her uncle’s parlour. Mrs Harris would be serving tea and cake and Eliza could read one of the books she had borrowed from the library and forget her woes for a little while.
25 June 1873
Eliza rose before dawn and forced herself to eat something for breakfast, even though the bread and cheese turned to dust in her mouth and the tea tasted like dishwater.
Just a hint of warmth in the sun crept over the hills, dispersing the mist from the gullies, but Eliza barely noticed. A rabble of butterflies chased each other in her stomach as she approached the school. Several small, rotund ponies had been turned loose into the small paddock beside the playground and knots of children were already playing together in the school yard. They stopped to look at their new schoolmistress, casting her curious glances as she opened the gate. Eliza bade them good morning and was rewarded with uncertain smiles and nods before they turned back to their amusements.
Flora Donald, dressed in a sober brown woollen gown and a spotless white apron, waited at the door. Eliza greeted the acting head teacher with a smile that was not returned. Flora’s unblinking gaze raked Eliza from head to toe—she knew it had been a mistake to choose her favourite dark blue gown and not the black gown, but she only had the one suitable mourning dress and she was damned if she was going to be disapproved of by this woman.
‘Good morning, Miss Penrose. You are responsible for ringing the bell at eight sharp. Any child arriving late is marked as such. You are to wear this.’
Flora handed her an apron similar to her own.
‘I’ll just put my coat away,’ Eliza said and stepped into the schoolroom. Mean fires in the fireplaces did little to alleviate the chill of the large room. Eliza shivered and went to add some more wood.
‘What are you doing? We cannot afford the wood for the fires and we’ll need it for when the weather gets really cold,’ Flora chided.
Eliza tied on the apron and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She rubbed her hands together and stamped her feet, her breath clouding in the cold air. Maybe once the room was filled with warm bodies it would heat up.
The clock above one of the fireplaces struck eight.
‘Please ring the bell, Miss Penrose,’ Flora said.
Picking up the school bell, Eliza threw open the front door. Hefting the bell in her right hand, she stood on the front step and gave a half-a-dozen short, sharp rings. The clanging resounded off the steep valley walls, echoing into its darkest corners and momentarily drowning out the beat of the stampers.
Girls and boys of all ages in clean but much mended clothes clattered past her, jostling and pushing each other as they hung coats and satchels on the hooks in the vestibule.
‘Close the door, Miss Penrose.’
Eliza looked up and down the street and, satisfied that no more children were coming, shut the door. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders and strode down the aisle between the desks where the children had found their seats. Seventy pairs of eyes bored into her back.
Show no fear, Will would say and at the thought of him, she smiled, feeling his sardonic presence with her.
Mounting the platform, she stood beside Flora Donald, folded her hands in front of the starched apron and surveyed the schoolroom.
Flora said, ‘Good morning, children,’ and seventy voices droned, ‘Good morning, Miss Donald.’
‘Children, I would like you to meet Miss Penrose, who will be our assistant teacher while Mr Emerton is indisposed. Now, say good morning to her.’
‘Good morning, Miss Penrose.’
‘We’ll begin by singing the national anthem.’
Eliza had never heard ‘God Save the Queen’ sung so discordantly, but the schoolroom lacked a musical instrument for accompaniment.
At the conclusion of the anthem, the children resumed their seats. As the room settled, one of the older boys at the back of the room rose to his feet, struggling to get his long limbs out from beneath a desk that was too small for him.
‘When’s Mr Emerton coming back?’ he asked.
‘Mr Emerton remains quite unwell and will not be returning. A new head teacher will be appointed in the fullness of time,’ Flora replied.
‘Miss Penrose? My pa says you’ve never taught a school like this before,’ a red-headed girl in the same row as the boy said without standing.
The butterflies in Eliza’s stom
ach redoubled their effort. She asked the girl’s name.
‘Martha Mackie,’ the girl replied, her chin rising.
‘Firstly, Martha, you will stand, or raise your hand, if you wish to talk, and secondly, I will not have you questioning my qualifications to teach you. Did your parents teach you no manners?’
The girl coloured and looked down at the desk. ‘Sorry, miss,’ she mumbled.
Eliza’s gaze swept the room, defying the other children to question her right to be there. ‘You may only be five feet tall,’ her father had told her, ‘but you must show the world you are two yards high and will not take nonsense from anyone.’
‘Please take the roll, Miss Penrose,’ Flora said.
Eliza lifted the lid of the head teacher’s desk and jumped back, stifling a yelp as a spider as large as her hand stared back at her from the top of the roll book with dark, fathomless eyes.
Don’t show weakness, don’t scream, don’t give them the satisfaction.
She caught her breath and closed the desk lid with deliberate care. ‘It seems one of our students has misplaced his or her pet, Miss Donald,’ she said.
Before Flora could glance at the arachnid, Eliza addressed the children. ‘Miss Donald and I will leave the room for five minutes and when we return, we shall expect the animal to have been removed and there will be no repercussions. If it is still there on our return, you all stay in over lunchtime.’
With as much dignity as she could muster, she retreated to the office, Flora in her wake.
Flora shut the office door and turned to Eliza, her eyes blazing. ‘May I remind you, Miss Penrose, that I am in charge and it is up to me to say who will or will not suffer repercussions for their impertinence.’
Eliza returned Flora’s furious glare. ‘And are you partial to spiders, Miss Donald?’
‘I am not, but I will not have my authority undermined.’
Through the half-open door, uproar arose—the children laughing and shouting. Eliza closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. Was the laughter at her expense or that of the perpetrator of the failed practical joke? She thought of the spider with its eight huge, hairy legs. She had never in her whole life seen such a large beast. What else did this strange country have in store for her?
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