The Unmourned

by Meg Keneally

  ‘A grim assessment.’

  ‘And an accurate one, I am afraid.’

  ‘A shame the man’s tall, given what you told me when we looked at Church’s body.’

  ‘Don’t set too much store by that, Hugh. I only said the murderer could have been a woman. It could also have been a man, either short or crouched down. Anyway, McAllister certainly has the funds to hire people, male or female, tall or short.’

  Monsarrat sighed. The more he found out, the less he knew.

  ‘Tell me, Homer. Moral corruption among the great and good is no surprise. But what of moral rectitude among base criminals? Can that be found as easily, do you think?’

  Preston thought for a moment.

  ‘I’ve seen it, from time to time. You must have as well. The man who shares his rations with someone weaker. The man who takes punishment for another on the road gangs. And very little thanks they get for it, unless there is thanks in the afterlife, to which they commit themselves early if they behave in that manner. Now, this is no philosophical question. You have a reason for asking.’

  ‘I do, and I’d be happy to enlighten you. On a confidential basis, of course. But if you’d indulge me another question? You treat the women in the Factory from time to time. Have you noticed any change in their condition recently? For example, since the riot?’

  ‘What sort of change?’

  ‘Well, anything. But particularly, I suppose, something that would point to a change in their rations. Or evidence of violence, perhaps. Anything like that. Perhaps even marks similar to those you saw on Cruden’s convict.’

  ‘Well, the poor things are still underfed, and the riot wasn’t long ago. I was there the week before Church was killed to see the women in the lying-in hospital and checking over a few of the others while I was at it. They all claimed they were going hungry, but that’s not unusual.’

  The edge of Preston’s boot had been unconsciously turning up pebbles as he walked, and then drawing back and kicking them. He smiled when any of the stones plopped into the river then stared for a moment at the ripples they made.

  Now he stopped short. ‘I’ll tell you what though. Something I have noticed, and since the riot, too. The new girls. They asked me to look them over, make sure they’re not carrying any sort of pestilence which could infect the whole Factory – God, can you imagine what a plague could do in those close quarters? And of late many of them have exhibited the same type of injury.’

  ‘Injury? You mean they were wounded?’

  ‘Nothing open, no blood. But a number of them had bruising on their upper arms. Almost encircling them, actually. And worse than the bruising on the woman I examined for McAllister.’

  ‘How many had those marks, would you say? What proportion?’

  ‘Hard to say. But I’ll tell you this – I only saw those marks on the young ones.’

  ‘And what do you think made them? Could it have been a hand?’

  ‘Could have been. But maybe not. Maybe the old lags like to assert their superiority over the new ones. Women attacking other women is a fairly common occurrence behind those walls, I understand.’

  ‘Or maybe it was a man’s hand,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Or maybe it was no hand at all. I asked the girls if they were being ill-treated – I always do – and they said no. Not with a great deal of conviction, but I don’t think those new to the Factory do anything emphatically. I think, for the most part, they try to escape notice.’

  ‘Homer, will you do me a great favour? Will you let me know whether, on your next visit to examine the women, you notice the same?’

  ‘Only if you tell me what you’re driving at. God’s blood, Hugh, you’re harder than a corpse to get information out of.’

  ‘Very well then. But I must caution you, nothing’s confirmed, nothing is double-checked, nothing is confessed. The information is all supposition and speculation on my part.’

  ‘My favourite kind!’

  ‘Well, that convenient convict you mentioned earlier. Her name is Grace O’Leary. From what I understand, she used to protect the younger ones from the nocturnal attentions of our one-eyed friend. Then of course she started the riot, as a result of which she was demoted to the Third Class and is no longer in a position to intervene.’

  ‘That’s what happens to rebels. It’s why I try to rebel as little as possible.’

  ‘Ah, but Homer, some things are worth a rebellion or two. And saving this woman’s life may well be one of them. Because those marks, you see – I believe they were put there by Church. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they appeared more often after O’Leary was moved to the Third Class. Because without her, there was nothing standing between the girls and Church but a stroll across the yard and a flimsy wooden door.’

  He had only done what his superior had instructed, after all, he told himself. A trip to see the doctor on the way to the Female Factory. All approved. But Monsarrat knew Eveleigh would not have approved of the content of the conversation. He hoped there was never any need for his master to hear of it.

  Next he set his mind to another task for which he could not be reproached. Eveleigh had asked Monsarrat to introduce himself to the new superintendent. Now Monsarrat planned to have another conversation of which he hoped Eveleigh would never hear.

  Scores of female voices scurried through the hot air to reach him, the vibration of footfalls burrowing through the dirt underneath his boots. It must be the meal hour.

  The gate guard directed him to the superintendent’s residence, the place where the wasted Henrietta Church had poured rum down her throat until she could no longer taste it. Monsarrat didn’t know quite what to expect, but he knew the place would be clean now, scrubbed and scoured and aired: Hannah had told him she’d given it a going over.

  It wasn’t the superintendent who answered, but Rebecca Nelson.

  ‘Mr Monsarrat! How marvellous. I do hope you’re not finding the continuing absences of your housekeeper too difficult. You certainly look none the worse for wear, but I’m sure it can’t be easy and I am so grateful to you for lending her. I was just telling Mr Rohan what a tremendous help she’s been to me.’

  Monsarrat stepped out of the glaring sun into the small front room, blinking to adjust his eyes, aware it must make him look somewhat myopic.

  The man at the table may have been somewhat myopic himself. He had a pince-nez perched on his nose, a glass butterfly with smudged wings, through which he had no doubt been perusing the great number of documents spread out on the table. Not the neat stacks which decorated Eveleigh’s desk, and Monsarrat’s own. A blanket of paper which may have had some organising principle, but not one Monsarrat could discern.

  Monsarrat introduced himself as the clerk to the governor’s secretary. ‘Mr Eveleigh begs your pardon that he has not had a chance to call on you himself, sir, and intends to do so at the earliest opportunity. In the interim, he has sent me to assure you that the governor’s staff will provide you with any assistance you need, and to inquire whether we can do anything for you at present.’

  Mr Rohan nodded, mumbled polite acknowledgements, and said (perhaps a little sceptically) that of course he understood the governor’s secretary was a man with a great many tasks to attend to, especially in the empty space between one governor and another.

  The Factory’s management committee had appointed Mr Rohan, and Monsarrat had no idea what their selection criteria were, but he presumed they’d want someone staid, above reproach. And someone pliable. So he knew he should assume that anything he said to Rohan might find its way to McAllister. That he should really state nothing of any importance; perhaps simply conduct an inconsequential polite conversation and then take his leave.

  So it was with a degree of horror that he heard himself saying, ‘Superintendent, if I may have a moment of your time, I’d like to discuss with you prisoner Grace O’Leary.’

  ‘Ah. The riotous Irish woman. Very probably responsible for removing my prede
cessor from this world. What of her?’

  ‘Well, as a man such as yourself will appreciate, it’s a delicate issue, this whole business. Unfortunate, of course. Would that it hadn’t happened … But as it has Mr Eveleigh’s most anxious for it to be dealt with using the utmost discretion.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s wise. Although it may be somewhat late for discretion. Have you seen the Chronicle?’

  The Sydney Chronicle was a newspaper that delighted in pointing out what it saw as the failures of government. And one of the failures it particularly enjoyed reporting on was the government’s inability to control the convict population. Monsarrat had seen several copies of the paper at Government House over the past few months. He had read about the riots at the Female Factory, which had occurred while he was still at Port Macquarie. He recalled that the paper rather enjoyed using language which could be described as florid, and had referred to the rioting women as ‘Amazonian banditti’, a phrase few in the colony would have heard before.

  The Chronicle had little sympathy for those it had styled Amazonians, regarding the women in the Third Class as a lost cause. ‘The awful fact is,’ the paper opined, ‘that the softer sex, to the disgrace of human nature, are a thousand times more obdurate in their minds, and determined in their vicious career, than the men.’

  And now the superintendent was excavating a more recent issue among the scrambled documents, and sliding it across to Monsarrat.

  ‘We have heard,’ the paper said,

  of the most heinous murder of the superintendent of the Parramatta Female Factory, Mr Robert Church.

  Such a man is to be praised for taking on what must be described as an almost impossible task: the control of the colony’s most refractory females.

  Our readers will remember that the damsels inhabiting the Parramatta institution took umbrage to justly and lawfully imposed discipline, responding by rampaging through the streets. It was only the swift response of Church and several constables which prevented the citizenry of that fair town from coming to injury.

  The Valkyrie thought to have concocted the idea for the insurrection, and to have urged other females in the commission of it, is called Grace O’Leary, and our correspondent informs us she has been confined to a cell in the Third Class penitentiary since being marched back through the Factory gates.

  Now, as the constabulary investigates the foul slaying of the former superintendent, there are those who believe this woman may have had some part to play in it.

  Yet although the superintendent was struck down on the grounds of the Factory itself, and although O’Leary and her cohorts might be presumed to have much to gain from his demise, no charges have been laid.

  We understand that our legal system allows some benefit of the doubt to be given to those accused of crime, and that processes must be followed. But surely in the case of a woman fallen once from respectable society, and then again from the First Class to the Third Class at the Factory, some assumptions can be forgiven.

  If the government fails to see what is so clear to others, fails to call this woman to account for the most wilful murder of her better, the honest citizens of Parramatta could be forgiven for questioning the strength of the very system of order on which they rely for daily protection.

  Monsarrat looked up at the superintendent. His intention had been to acquaint the man with the issues Grace O’Leary had raised. He could see now that this course of action would be futile. Worse, the superintendent might decide he could not be relied on to extract the necessary information, and cut off his access to the Factory altogether.

  ‘Ah, yes, the Chronicle is always rather entertaining,’ he said.

  ‘I find very little entertaining about that article, Mr Monsarrat. And I’m given to understand that part of the delay in charging the woman has been brought about by your enquiries. Is that correct?’

  ‘I certainly hope not, sir, and I do apologise if that’s the case, as my objective has always been to act with the greatest expediency.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you have insisted on several interviews with her.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, at the direction of Mr Eveleigh. In a matter of this gravity, he feels it is imperative to demonstrate that due process has been followed, and to present an unassailable case to the court in order to save time and money in securing a conviction. It is for that purpose that I have interviewed her, in order to prepare evidence to be passed to the police and the courts.’

  ‘And what has she said to you in these interviews?’

  ‘Only that she is innocent of the crime.’

  ‘And you have seen her – wait – twice now? Yet all you have managed to attain has been a denial?’

  ‘Superintendent – here we stray into matters which are somewhat … vivid. Perhaps …’

  Rebecca, who had been tidying papers, looked up at this. ‘You are kind, Mr Monsarrat, to be so scrupulous in ensuring nothing inappropriate falls on my ears. I shall make it easy for you, shall I? Leave you two gentlemen to discuss the issue? I shall go and check on Mrs Mulrooney, ensure the convicts haven’t eaten her for lunch.’

  After she left, Monsarrat turned back to the superintendent. ‘Prisoner O’Leary did, of course, communicate more than a simple denial to me during the course of our interviews, sir. She gave me to understand that Mr Church had been using some of the younger prisoners to satisfy his carnal appetites, and, further, that he had been siphoning off the prisoners’ rations to sell for his own profit.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid, man, of course she’d say that! They would do anything, these ones, to cast blame on those who are tasked with controlling them. I fully expect to hear similar allegations in regard to myself, despite the fact that my behaviour is never less than upright. So I ask you again, Mr Monsarrat, why can you not simply conclude your interview so that charges may be laid?’

  ‘No one wishes more than I to have this matter concluded, sir. Which is, in truth, part of the reason I have come today. I feel, sir, that I might be able to extract the confession you desire with one more interview. With your kind permission, of course.’

  The superintendent exhaled sharply through his nostrils.

  ‘Very well then. As you have been helpful enough to present a member of your household to assist Mrs Nelson, you may arrive at ten tomorrow morning to conduct one last interview with the O’Leary woman. But I must warn you that should you fail I will most certainly be taking the matter up with your employer, and several others who wield considerable influence in this place.’

  Chapter 23

  Hannah saw Monsarrat as he crossed the yard. He looked over and nodded, but he was walking with his hands clasped behind his back – a sure sign of some sort of consternation.

  The women were trickling back to their work, into the rooms where even the dust smelled burned, under the eyes of men who didn’t care how uncomfortable they were as long as they met their quota and didn’t give any trouble.

  Perhaps Monsarrat had been sent to see Rohan. She would be most interested to hear what he had to say this evening, as well as to find out why he was looking towards the Third Class penitentiary in an apparent state of agitation.

  Tonight she would have some information of her own, of course. The discussion with Helen had been in equal parts horrifying and useful.

  As the yard drained of all but Hannah, she glanced up to the second-storey window she knew to be Lizzie’s. She looked around a few times for Rebecca, felt in the pocket of her skirt, closed her fingers around the metal in it. Rebecca sometimes entrusted her with the keys to various Factory buildings. Not the gaol, of course, or the stores, but some offices and workrooms and so on.

  ‘I’m so absent-minded, Hannah. And I don’t want to ruin the line of my dress with this big metal lump. Here, you take them. Then I’ll know where they are,’ she had said.

  And really Mrs Nelson had not left her with any instructions as to what not to do with the keys. Any instructions at all, really. While she seemed to have c
hanged her mind about Hannah visiting Lizzie, she had never actually forbidden it.

  ‘The woman isn’t here to instruct me one way or the other,’ she muttered to herself, and made for the stairs.

  As she hurried up the stairs to Lizzie’s floor, Hannah felt nervous. ‘You’ve faced worse than an old madwoman,’ she said to herself. Had anyone been there to remind her that the old woman was around the same age as her, they’d have felt the corner of her cleaning cloth.

  She knocked, gently. She suspected Lizzie wouldn’t answer, but it seemed somehow worse to enter without knocking than it did to use the keys without permission in the first place.

  She heard no sounds of movement from within the room so she turned the key and put her hand to the door, and scolded herself when she noticed it was trembling. She pushed. Those hinges were in a state, by the looks of them.

  Lizzie lay on her small cot, facing the wall, not moving. A bowl of food lay untouched on the floor beside her. For a moment Hannah was concerned enough to watch to see whether Lizzie was breathing.

  She was. It wasn’t the slow, deep breathing of the sleeper, either. Hannah was sure that Lizzie was awake.

  ‘Hello, Lizzie,’ she said quietly.

  Lizzie didn’t move. But she spoke. ‘Eddie scolded me for hitting you. But you shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have done that to my Richard.’

  ‘I did nothing to your Richard, nor to any one of yours,’ Hannah said, keeping her voice soft, a soothing, singsong cadence she might have used to comfort Padraig when he was a boy. ‘And you did nothing to my Colm, or to my father. Other people did all that. It was a long time ago, now, you know.’

  ‘A month may be a long time for you, but not for me,’ Lizzie said.

  Hannah was walking very slowly closer to the bed. Half-bracing herself for the kind of attack only the insane seemed capable of.