by Meg Keneally
‘Lizzie, it was not a month ago. It was twenty-seven years. There are men who were not born then who are now officers in His Majesty’s army.’
‘My Richard might have been an officer in the army. He’s dead now. The Irish killed him.’
‘It was a terrible time, wasn’t it?’ said Hannah, reaching the cot. ‘My son is grown now, and he had not yet been conceived when the trouble started, but I can still smell the smoke from the burning thatch, from the houses. I still hear the yells.’
‘Yes, they never stop,’ said Lizzie. ‘Nor the screams, neither. But the burning – the burning of wood and thatch, I wish that was the worst of it. Those of us in our town, we smelled something different.’
‘What did you smell, Lizzie?’
‘When people burn, they smell like lamb,’ Lizzie said, with a suddenly cheerful tone. ‘Imagine that! You’d never have expected it, would you? Lamb roast. It’s my favourite.’
She rolled over to look at Hannah. She was smiling, but tears were falling down her cheeks.
‘Was it you? Did you?’ she asked.
‘No, Lizzie, it wasn’t me. What happened to your dear ones also happened to mine. And I am no more pleased by the death of yours than I was by the death of mine.’
‘Did yours die in Scullabogue too?’
Hannah almost fainted when she heard the name. Scullabogue. A place her father wouldn’t discuss, nor Colm. The place that had made her realise brutality was not confined to the British. For after the rebels had lined up and shot some of the Scullabogue Protestants, they’d set alight a barn containing as many as two hundred other Protestants, including women and children. Twice the desperate occupants had managed to break down the barn door. But they were unable to get past the pikemen stationed there, who drove them back in. During one of the skirmishes a two-year-old child had managed to crawl through the feet of the rebels, moving as fast as he could towards the clear air. His last breath would have tasted of smoke. When he was noticed, he was piked through.
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No, Lizzie, but they didn’t die far from there. And any such death in any place is inexcusable. I can understand why hearing an Irish voice upset you so.’
‘It’s just thinking of Richard, you see. The last time I saw him, my head was full of Irish voices.’
‘Was he a yeoman?’
‘A yeoman! What a ridiculous idea!’ Lizzie emitted a giggle, a surprisingly girlish one at that.
‘But you said he might have been an officer.’
‘He might have been, had he lived long enough. I left him with my sister, you see, told them to hide in the barn while I ran to try to get help. He was in the barn when they burned it. Yes, he might have been an officer. He certainly enjoyed waving a sword around. But when they burned him in the barn, you see, he was only three years old.’
Lizzie’s face crumpled, almost fell in on itself, and she began to cry. Not dainty tears, nor the gasping of Helen. A keen, a wail, consistent, flat and hopeless.
Hannah sat down next to her and drew her into an embrace, wondering if she would be rebuffed. She wasn’t, and for some minutes they sat there as Lizzie leaked and wailed onto Hannah’s shoulder.
‘Do you think you can stop them?’ Lizzie asked finally. ‘Maybe there’s still time. Before anyone else dies.’
‘Lizzie, my love. It’s over. You can rest, now. It won’t happen to anyone else.’
Hannah knew this was a ridiculous statement. It could happen again. But Lizzie was not in the kind of state to deal with nuances.
‘Perhaps, Lizzie, we should try to be friends. People being friends – that’s the best way to stop this sort of thing, isn’t it?’
‘Friends. Yes. Friends don’t kill each other. Eddie said you just wanted to be nice. That’s why she was so cross at me for hitting you. She couldn’t understand why I would do that to someone who was just trying to be nice. And she told me it was rude to use that name in front of you.’
‘Lizzie, can I ask you a question? Who is Eddie?’
‘You know Eddie! You were here with her the other day!’ Lizzie’s face clouded then. ‘Was it you? Or someone who looked like you? You’re not a croppy in disguise, are you?’
‘No, no. It was me. But the lady who brought me here the other day is called Rebecca.’
‘She does like to pretend,’ said Lizzie fondly, as though she was talking of an imaginative child. ‘She always did. At night she would tell stories, you see. About dragons and castles, mostly, and handsome princes rescuing damsels. Not very popular with some, though. Not enough handsome princes to go around.’
‘She told stories? To you? Does she come to you at night to do that?’
‘No, of course not – she didn’t need to come. She was already there. In the dormitory, with the rest of us. She spoke so beautifully. She sounded like a princess herself; it was hard to remember that she was no different.’
‘No different from the rest of you? But she’s a free lady.’
‘Yes. She’s a clever girl. But she’ll always be Eddie to me.’
‘Are you sure, Lizzie? It is a boy’s name.’
‘Well, I have known boys called Eddie, it is true,’ Lizzie said. ‘But my Eddie, her name is Edwina.’
‘And you’re certain it’s the same woman, Lizzie?’
‘I am not a liar,’ Lizzie said, beginning to turn away. ‘I’ve never seen hair like that on anyone else.’
‘I know you’re not, Lizzie. But the woman you call Eddie is the wife of a prosperous merchant, a Quaker at that. She’s a free woman.’
‘Yes, she’s done well for herself.’ Lizzie began to chuckle now. ‘A kind man, too. Not like Robert Church.’
‘Do you know what happened to him? Has Rebecca told you? Eddie, I mean? What did she say?’
A look of suspicion began to bleed into Lizzie’s eyes. ‘Eddie says I mustn’t tell tales,’ she said, like a child.
Of course, Lizzie could be imagining things, thought Hannah. There may indeed have been an Edwina living here, and she may indeed have looked like Rebecca yet borne no other similarity to her. But it didn’t seem entirely likely.
Now, she left Lizzie’s side and walked over to the window, suddenly anxious to get a sense of the vantage point Lizzie would have had if she’d seen the attack on Robert Church.
The yard was in almost full view. Church’s body had been found in the middle of it. If he’d fallen where he was stabbed – and it was hard to see how he wouldn’t have, for why would an assailant move the body from a secluded spot into plain view – anyone standing where Hannah was now would have had an unimpeded view of the whole business, although whether they could have recognised the murderer from this distance at night was a question Hannah couldn’t answer.
But she could see Rebecca clearly enough now, walking across the empty space, seemingly looking for someone. She turned back from the window.
‘Lizzie, does it get lonely here?’
‘Sometimes, I suppose. I have my thoughts to keep me company, but sometimes they are thoughts I don’t want.’
‘Would you like me to come and sit with you one evening?’
Lizzie looked doubtful.
‘I could bring shortbread.’
‘I’ve always loved shortbread,’ said Lizzie.
‘So perhaps one evening soon I will visit you and help you count off the dark hours with the aid of my best shortbread.’
Lizzie said nothing, but smiled.
‘One thing, though, Lizzie,’ Hannah said. ‘Rebecca – Eddie – said you mustn’t tell tales, and she was right. My visits should be a secret. Not something to tell tales about. Do you understand?’
Lizzie nodded solemnly. ‘When you come, bring some shortbread for Richard, too,’ she said. ‘He does love it. Sometimes the promise of it is the only way I can get him into bed of an evening.’
Chapter 24
Monsarrat did not possess a horse. The major’s money wouldn’t last forever, and in any case he did
n’t need one for the short distance between his cottage and Government House, both north of the river.
But now a trip to Windsor from Parramatta – the same journey that had seen him lose his first ticket of leave – became, in his mind, crucial.
After leaving a note on his kitchen table telling Hannah not to expect him home that night (there were certainly advantages to her new literacy), he was able to find a carter going to Windsor who was willing to take him for a small fee. Unfortunately the carter wasn’t returning that night, so Monsarrat would either have to find lodgings, rely on Cruden’s generosity, should he find the man at home, or walk through the night to be back at his desk tomorrow.
He told himself that it wasn’t deceptive to keep Eveleigh ignorant of his conversation with Preston and his plans to visit Cruden. After all, one was a confidential communication with a friend, the other a social visit in his own hours.
Still, he felt uneasy about the journey, and was grateful for the elongated daylight hours which November brought with it – he would have hated to be on the road with a silent carter he had never met as night fell.
The man was kind enough to deposit him outside the Cruden residence – or at least what he hoped was still the Cruden residence. He did not know whether Cruden’s pastoral activities had managed to make up for the shortfall in his magistrate’s stipend.
It seemed he was in luck, for the door was opened by one of the Cruden boys, a young man now – Will. Tall and beginning to fill out around the shoulders, with the same grin and impatient shuffle Monsarrat remembered from the schoolhouse more than two years ago.
Will employed that grin when he saw who was at the door. ‘I regret to inform you, Mr Monsarrat, that my education is now complete, so I have no further need of you.’
Monsarrat smiled back. He had wondered, recently, whether there was anyone in his world save Hannah who did not have a hidden agenda, and the uncomplicated and unapologetic larrikinism of Will was surprisingly comforting.
‘Your education will never be complete, young Cruden, and you’d profit to remember that.’
Will stepped forward and surprised Monsarrat by enfolding him in a gangly, long-limbed embrace. ‘And what is it that does bring you here, Mr Monsarrat?’ he asked, standing aside to admit Monsarrat to the house, and leading him past the rooms where the pair of them, and Will’s younger brother, had spent many hours wrestling with algebra and Latin conjugations of verbs. ‘I take it you are no longer being fed and clothed by His Majesty?’
‘After a fashion I suppose I still am. I am in the employ of the private secretary to the governor.’
‘Must be a fairly easy job, with no governor in residence.’
‘You’d be surprised to know, Master Will, that a tendency towards industry finds its own outlet.’
‘I hope never to be able to confirm that statement, Mr Monsarrat. In any case, I imagine you want to see Father.’
‘Yes, if it is convenient. And I do apologise for arriving without notice. I imagine he’s busy.’
Will’s smile faded for a moment. ‘Less so than he was. He receives few visitors, now, and turns most of them away. Nevertheless, I’m certain he’ll make an exception in your case – if only because you might still be able to curb some of my worst excesses. Would you mind taking a seat in the parlour? I’ll tell him you’re here.’
The Samuel Cruden who walked into the room a few minutes later was almost unrecognisable to Monsarrat. Still dressed austerely, still with his grey hair swept back from his temples. But thin and slow, eyes darting to the side as he approached Monsarrat, as if to ascertain whether an ambush was coming. His voice, though, was as clear and strong as it had been when it had echoed from the bench.
‘Mr Monsarrat! What a delight – it hasn’t been three years, has it?’
As briefly as he could, Monsarrat told Cruden of the events at Port Macquarie which had led him to an early ticket of leave.
‘The governor’s office! I always knew you would rise, given the chance – and if you maintained the presence of mind to get out of your own way every so often. It’s very kind of you to call. I imagine that you’ve heard my circumstances are altered now.’
‘I had, actually, sir. In fact, that’s why I’ve come.’
Cruden frowned. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Monsarrat, I’d just as soon not go over the whole business again. Should you wish to satisfy yourself as to the particulars, there are many lurid accounts in the Chronicle.’
‘Forgive me, sir. It’s not prurience which brings me here. Rather, I am currently the subject of a certain amount of attention from the agent of your undoing – and I think it is possible, even plausible, that he more permanently dispatched another man who was inconvenient to him.’
Cruden sighed, sat down, his eyes still probing the corners of the room. ‘Very well, then. I suppose you’d better tell me.’
‘You’ve heard of the murder of Robert Church, the superintendent of the Female Factory?’
‘Yes. A barbarous end, but from what I understand he is unmourned.’
‘Nevertheless, His Majesty’s government wishes his killer brought to justice, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’
‘The current suspect is a convict at the Female Factory. But – and I must ask you never to repeat what I am about to say …’
Cruden nodded.
‘It has come to my attention that Mr Church might have been in competition with Socrates McAllister in the business of sly grog.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Cruden, ‘he most certainly was. But if you’re thinking that is motive for killing the man, I doubt it.’
‘Really? With respect, sir, the last person I would expect you to defend is McAllister.’
‘Not defending him, Monsarrat. Simply stating a fact. McAllister could buy and sell Church. He’d simply need to lower the price of his merchandise – which I’ve heard was less diluted than Church’s – and Church would lose his customers in a heartbeat. No, I can’t see how he has anything to gain from the man’s death. In fact, he has something to lose.’
‘Really? I didn’t think there was anyone who would profit from Church’s continued existence.’
Cruden gave a brief chuckle. ‘Think on it for a moment, Monsarrat. Church was a monster, but an efficient one. He made the books balance, you see. I’m not sure how accurate they were but the returns always showed profit. And as long as the Factory was running efficiently, there was no need for Sydney to give credence to the less savoury rumours emanating from the place. Now, though, I understand the talk has already started – the appalling privations of the women, the forced attention of the superintendent, even suggestions that the true financial situation of the Factory might not be as robust as Church implied in the official statements. And with him gone, who would be held responsible for that?’
‘Of course. The management committee, on which McAllister sits.’
‘Yes. It is not inconceivable that there might be an inquiry. And while an adverse finding probably wouldn’t be fatal to McAllister, it would dent him. He does not like to be dented. No, I fear, Monsarrat, you will have to look elsewhere for your killer, even if your only wish is to congratulate them.’
‘The problem, sir, is that elsewhere points to a woman who I’m reasonably certain is innocent – not of all crimes, but of this one.’
‘Still, as much as I would love to see McAllister ruined, I don’t think this murder will be the end of him,’ said Cruden. ‘You may have to cast your net a little more broadly, Monsarrat. Look sideways, is my advice. Putting an unaccustomed slant on the facts can often lead to the most remarkable epiphanies.’
Monsarrat was offered the guest bedroom at the Cruden residence, and driven back to Parramatta before first light at breakneck speed in a trap piloted by young Will.
It was galling but Monsarrat had to admit that Cruden’s assessment was most likely correct. And of course there was no reason to suspect him of having a skewed view of the situation
. But Monsarrat was equally certain Grace was innocent. Perhaps he was deluding himself – he had to admit that he wanted her to be so. Or perhaps he needed to take Cruden’s advice and look sideways. It would have been helpful, though, if he had understood what the man meant.
‘Why is it that I am the only one never to taste a square of your shortbread? I know you were prohibited from giving me any at Port Macquarie, but I’m no longer a convict. And might I point out that I am also your employer? I paid for the flour and sugar that went into that tray.’
Monsarrat sounded petulant, even to his own ears. A short sleep in an unfamiliar bed followed by a jarring ride home had made him cranky. He disliked the way he was acting. It was simply shortbread – why should a senior government official such as himself care about such a thing?
‘When this is over, Mr Monsarrat, I’ll make you all the shortbread you want. I’ll make so much of it we’ll be able to build a second oven out of it. Hopefully that will keep you from squalling.’
‘Well, I think squalling is taking it a little bit far …’
‘And I think it doesn’t go far enough. Anyway, when you hear what it’s for, I’m sure you’ll not begrudge it.’
Indeed, when she told him, he didn’t begrudge the shortbread. But he came as close as he ever could to giving her a command.
‘Tonight? Is that your intention? Truly, you mustn’t. It’s far too dangerous. Walking about at that time at night by yourself is bad enough, but gaining entry to the Factory, creeping around – you could find yourself in there on a more permanent basis if you’re not careful.’
‘That’s why I intend to be careful, Mr Monsarrat. I did not survive as long as I have without stepping cautiously. We must know what Lizzie might have seen from her window. I intend to drop a handkerchief around the spot where they found Mr Church so I can assess if it is visible from Lizzie’s room.’
‘How will you get in?’
‘Ah, well, I have a plan for that, of course.’
‘Of course. Is it something you would like to enlighten me on?’
‘As you ask so prettily, Mr Monsarrat, and as I am denying you the solace of my shortbread, I feel it is the least I can do. Mrs Nelson, you see, enjoys her superior status. She pretends not to, but it leaks out in certain little ways. Including requiring me to carry her sewing bag for her.’
