by Meg Keneally
‘Are you …’
‘Yes, I am well able to manage here! Now go!’
Monsarrat went.
The narrow avenue he had noticed around the side of the house was baking hot, embers littering the ground. This side of the house was still standing, but it could not long remain so, Monsarrat thought. Beyond it, extending to the back of the house, the small gap in the fire persisted. It seemed to Monsarrat that there were two burning entities struggling to meet each other, one consuming the house and the other the garden, and each being prevented for some reason from joining hands. But they would achieve their objective soon, he had no doubt.
He stumbled down the narrow space between the two, holding his breath as much as he could. The heat of each wall made him dizzy, and the sweat in his eyes would have blinded him even had he been able to see through the smoke.
A moment later, he felt a minute reduction in temperature, a tiny easing of noise. He lifted his ruined shirtsleeve to his eyes, wiping the sweat and soot away, and blinked. He was in the yard behind the house, the one that led to the kitchen. The kitchen outbuilding itself was not yet aflame but the fire was hurling embers towards it, scouting parties before the major assault.
He could barely see the green of the kitchen’s paint through the smoke. The fact that he could see at all, though, told him the worst of the fire was behind him. And as he stumbled on through the smoke, a scrap of white near the ground began to emerge. It was not any white Mrs Mulrooney would have approved of. Smudged and streaked and torn, rendered utterly useless as an apron.
The skirts were hitched up slightly, revealing a pair of shredded feet. The toes of one were facing their counterparts on the other, in a manner which was not supposed to be possible. Their owner was sitting on the ground resting her back against the blistering paint of the kitchen, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted but slack.
No, he thought. You are not allowed to do this. I refuse my permission as your employer. You are not dismissed.
Monsarrat knelt, taking Mrs Mulrooney under the arms and hoisting her over his shoulder. As he stumbled away from the worst of the smoke, he prayed to a God to whom he rarely spoke (and usually had no wish to, if He was happy for the likes of Bulmer to represent Him). He prayed for the sting of a rolled cleaning cloth against his temple and a dressing-down for having the hide to lug a woman around as though she were a sack of grain.
Chapter 34
Under different circumstances, Monsarrat might have taken a small amount of guilty pleasure in seeing Grogan cry.
It had taken him some time to work his way back around to the front of what was once the house, carrying Mrs Mulrooney, not wanting to check whether she was still breathing.
The air lightened gradually, each breath less laboured than the last, until the patches of blue above him widened and he could see ten, twenty, thirty feet ahead.
By the time he gained the roadway leading to the house two constables had arrived, alerted by the none-too-subtle signal of one of the settlement’s best houses being burned to the ground.
One of them had managed to get Grogan’s wrists into a pair of irons. Grogan was not struggling. He was staring, instead, down the road which wound its way to the base of the hill before veering off towards Windsor. Monsarrat followed the man’s gaze. In the distance he could see a trap pulled by a single horse, which was being driven at remarkable speed by a driver with red hair. Someone, or something, was seated beside her, a small grey figure that could well have been a wolfhound.
Grogan’s mouth was open and tears were running freely down his cheeks, cutting paths through the soot. Daly was standing nearby. He had removed his jacket, which he had somehow had the presence of mind to fold and place on the ground nearby, and he was dabbing gingerly at the wound in his arm where the shard of exploding eucalypt had impaled it.
He was berating one of the constables in a voice made hoarse by smoke.
‘Delancey! Why on earth didn’t you stop her?’
‘There was no reason to stop her, sir. None that we were aware of, anyway. It was odd to see her without a bonnet. Or a driver. But we thought she was escaping the flames. We offered assistance but she ignored it, just drove on. We believed that as she was safe we should come up here and render any assistance necessary.’
Daly glowered at his subordinates. ‘Assumptions. Never make them again.’
But he forgot his anger, and his wound, when he saw Monsarrat. He reached down, spread his coat across the soot-dusted grass and helped Monsarrat lower Mrs Mulrooney onto it. Then the superintendent snaked his hand into the pocket of the coat on which Mrs Mulrooney now lay and drew out a silver pocket watch, which looked even shinier than it would normally have against the backdrop of so much dirt. Without opening it he held its polished surface above Mrs Mulrooney’s mouth and showed Monsarrat the thin film of moisture that had formed there.
‘Still alive, miraculously. Has you to thank for it, no doubt. I would not have gone in after her, simply because I felt there was no chance of survival for anyone in that house, and I would have been adding another corpse to the pile. You are to be commended, Monsarrat.’
Monsarrat’s relief at the sight of the mist on the silver overrode any surprise he might have felt at a commendation from this man. ‘I thank God for it, sir,’ he said, the last word truncated by the need to cough as his lungs revolted under the weight of so many flecks of burned house and immolated tree. ‘But she needs help, that much is clear.’
Daly turned to the constable who wasn’t actively engaged in detaining Grogan. ‘Run as fast as your spindly little legs will allow, down to the hospital, fetch Dr Preston in a trap and come back here. Send a man in another trap after Mrs Nelson. The speed of your return will have a direct bearing on your future in my office.’
The constable turned and sprinted down the hill.
Daly turned to the other constable. ‘Delancey, have you a water bag?’
The man nodded, motioning to a small leather bag on a strap which crossed his chest. Daly reached into the satchel, withdrew the water skin and poured a small amount into his hand, bathing Mrs Mulrooney’s face with surprising gentleness and pouring a few drops between her lips. She didn’t respond, not by the merest flicker of an eyelid, and the skin beneath the soot looked frighteningly pale. Daly handed the water bag to Monsarrat and turned to Grogan. ‘Now, boyo. You’re going to tell me why you are mewling like a baby.’
Monsarrat slowly emptied the bag, washing the worst of the filth off Mrs Mulrooney’s face and dribbling small amounts of water onto her lips. He very much feared it was a useless effort. The water would rest on her lips for a moment before running off down the side of her face. He tried to ignore the ashen quality of her skin, instead observing her chest continuing to rise and fall, however shallowly.
When Dr Preston arrived in the trap driven by the constable, he looked stricken at the sight of the housekeeper. He made no attempt to treat her there, dashing the faint hope Monsarrat was holding that the doctor knew of strange arts that could save her on the spot. But he helped Monsarrat load her into the trap and ordered the constable to drive away as fast as he could towards the hospital, with Daly calling after them to send the trap back as soon as Mrs Mulrooney had been unloaded.
It could have been the juddering of the vehicle as it did battle with the worst of the ruts on the road down the hill. It could have been the change in the air, still heavy with the smell of wood smoke but clearer, and as sweet as any Monsarrat had ever breathed. But whatever the reason, as they approached the hospital, Monsarrat felt movement in his lap where Mrs Mulrooney’s head rested. He looked down to see her eyes fluttering open. And now she was trying to speak, in a voice that would have been a whisper had it not been shredded by smoke.
‘Rest, dear lady. I would give anything to hear you tell me what an idiot of a man I am, but it will have to wait until you are improved.’
Mrs Mulrooney ignored him, of course, and tried to speak again. He lean
ed his head closer to her so that he could hear her message.
‘I hope,’ she was saying, ‘that you don’t expect me to wash that shirt.’
‘Well, Mr Monsarrat. I’ve stopped being surprised by you. No point. The only thing that will ever shock me is if you materialise in the place I expect you to be.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Eveleigh. As I believe you know, there was an urgent matter to which I needed to attend. If it’s any consolation, Superintendent Daly provided me with the most unimpeachable supervision.’
Monsarrat’s words were precise, their pronunciation less so. The small missing piece of his tongue was affecting his speech, the sibilants almost gurgling out of his mouth.
‘Yes, I’m aware of your adventures. The superintendent sent a messenger. He has had constables knee-deep in the river looking for red hair on a drowned body. He has raided every shebeen in the district, and has ordered every ship searched. Nothing, I’m afraid. There is nothing, however, to prevent a woman so deranged from wandering into the trackless bush, where her trace may never be found. But for now I am more concerned with another woman. How, may I ask, is your housekeeper?’
Monsarrat could hardly tell Eveleigh the truth – his housekeeper was cranky. Homer Preston had insisted she stay at the hospital for another day. She had spent the previous night coughing up black emissions and one of her ankles was badly broken.
Preston confided in Monsarrat, ‘You have to be so careful with these breaks. If it doesn’t heal correctly, she’ll hobble for the rest of her life.’ It would be some time before Mrs Mulrooney could walk with her accustomed ease.
Monsarrat, who had prayed more in the past twenty-four hours than he had in the previous decade, had since entreated God to spare the world a lame Hannah Mulrooney. Mostly for her sake, but also for his. It would put her in a permanently bad temper.
‘She is recovering, I thank you, sir,’ he said to Eveleigh. ‘It is yet to be seen how her ankle will heal, but she has escaped the situation with the rest of her intact.’
‘Quite a miracle, I understand,’ said Eveleigh.
‘Yes indeed, sir. The fire was very fierce and I feared she would be trapped inside.’
‘But the best miracles … Well, they tend to occur with earthly assistance. I understand it is you she has to thank for her survival, Monsarrat.’
When Monsarrat looked surprised, Eveleigh said, ‘The superintendent presented himself here last night, after it all. I’m not a drinking man, as you know, but I felt if there was ever a time to decant one of the finer bottles in the cellars, this was it. You have impressed the man, you know. The first time I’m aware of a former convict doing so.’
Monsarrat said nothing. After the blessing of Hannah’s survival, he barely dared hope for a second one – that he might actually have made an ally of the police superintendent.
‘I, however, am less impressed,’ said Eveleigh.
‘Of course, sir. I do apologise.’
‘Rightly so. I have a room full of documents that require sorting. It’s the work of a month or more, yet I gave you the task a day or two ago and you’ve not yet accomplished it.’
Monsarrat looked up and saw that one side of Eveleigh’s mouth was inching towards his cheek, the closest he’d ever seen the man come to a smile.
‘And what’s even more galling,’ said Eveleigh, ‘is that those documents will have to wait for some time before they are able to claim your full attention.’
Monsarrat inclined his head, with what he hoped was the appropriate amount of servility.
‘For now, they will have to languish. You have another task.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Monsarrat. Tickets of leave, perhaps? An inventory of the contents of Government House in preparation for the new governor’s arrival?
‘Since Mrs Nelson is no longer … available,’ said Eveleigh, ‘her driver – Grogan, I believe his name is – is best placed to provide us with some illumination regarding the death of Robert Church. I understand he’s also been charged with assault on a certain clerk. The superintendent is interviewing him today.’
‘Ah. I wish him every success.’
‘You can wish him that in person, actually. And you may contribute to it as well. He requires a clerk to transcribe the proceedings. And he has requested, would you believe, one Hugh Llewelyn Monsarrat.’
For once Monsarrat walked into the gaol without a sense of foreboding, without feeling as though the building was measuring him, sizing him up, checking whether any of its cells contained a Monsarrat-shaped hole into which he could be slotted.
Daly was waiting for him just inside and nodded when he saw Monsarrat. He was wearing a new coat, a darker one. His tan jacket would surely be permanently out of action on account of the blood and soot stains, which had also led to the consignment of Monsarrat’s shirt to his manageable parlour fire.
‘Mr Monsarrat. You may be interested to know that a woman with red hair was seen boarding a sloop to Van Diemen’s Land after Mrs Nelson escaped. We have sent a fast ship in pursuit.’
Monsarrat did not hold out much hope. The idea that a woman who had set a spectacular conflagration in Parramatta would so calmly take ship for another port somehow seemed unlikely. He could more easily imagine her raging into the bush and thus vanishing.
‘I wish you the best of luck with it, sir.’
‘Hmph. We’ll get started, shall we?’ Daly said.
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Eveleigh says you have a fine hand, and that’s borne out by what I’ve seen in your report on the O’Leary woman.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Quick, are you?’
‘As quick as you need me to be.’
‘We’ll see.’
Grogan didn’t look up as the guard admitted them to his cell. He lay on a board that was suspended from the wall by two chains. He seemed fascinated with the ceiling.
Daly turned to the guard. ‘Tell me, what’s your name?’
‘Barton, sir,’ said the guard.
‘Mr Barton, tell me, are you a halfwit?’
‘Ah … no, sir. I don’t think so.’
‘You do not, eh? May I ask you what you think Mr Monsarrat here and I are intending to accomplish today?’
‘You are to interview the prisoner, sir, is my understanding.’
‘Very good. Perhaps you have three-quarters of your wits, rather than simply half. You certainly don’t have them all. How do you expect this gentleman and me to complete our task – together with the transcription of the statement – while standing?’
The guard gaped. Perhaps he was wondering if there was any safe response. If he was, Monsarrat had no concern about his wits whatsoever – it was a sensible question to ask oneself in the circumstances.
‘A table, man! A table and chairs! Procure them at once.’
The guard bobbed, almost like a maid, and scurried off.
‘Lock the door behind you, for God’s sake! He may be impersonating a log at the moment, but I assure you our friend is well capable of making a run at you.’
The guard hurried back, locked the door and hurried off again.
‘Well, Grogan. It seems we are your cellmates for a short period.’
There was no response from the log. Grogan turned his head slightly, glared at Daly, and then resumed his examination of the ceiling.
‘Not feeling loquacious today, my friend?’ said Daly. ‘To be expected, I suppose. Yours was not the primary crime, after all. But the person who did commit it has left you to pay her share as well as yours, it seems.’
Grogan was on his feet so quickly that Monsarrat had no time to react. He barrelled towards the superintendent, one arm outstretched, his fingers in a claw as though Grogan meant to close them around the superintendent’s neck.
Daly seemed unconcerned. He simply snatched Grogan’s wrist when the man was close enough and twisted it downwards, eliciting a yelp which seemed too high to have emanated from such a large mound of a person
.
‘Very unwise. Strangling me isn’t going to change your situation. You can strangle Monsarrat, of course, but even that wouldn’t help.’
Monsarrat was still glowing from Eveleigh’s reports of the superintendent’s approval. Nevertheless, he could not say with absolute certainty that Daly was joking.
‘Best sit down,’ said Daly. ‘Your gaolers have enough intelligence to prevent you from escaping. Whether that intelligence extends to finding a table and chairs, and how quickly, I’ve no idea. It may be some time before we can begin the formal interview.’
Grogan declined the offer, pacing around the room. Finally he turned again to Daly and the meanness had returned.
‘She wouldn’t have left me, you know. She wouldn’t have. Not unless she’d been given no choice. He forced her to go,’ Grogan said, slashing an arm in Monsarrat’s direction.
‘Forced her?’ said Daly. ‘He did nothing of the kind. Nor did anyone else. If there was anyone doing any forcing, I suspect it was the lady herself.’
Finally Grogan sat down on the plank. ‘She’s done nothing wrong,’ he said.
‘Oh, I think she’s done a lot wrong. Murder, attempted murder, arson. Theft, I presume.’
‘Presume what you like. I’ll not be talking to you of anything to do with it.’
‘Such loyalty! A fine fellow you must be, to be willing to take punishment for your employer. Particularly when that punishment involves your neck being broken. A pity, though, that the loyalty isn’t returned.’
‘Mrs Nelson would do anything for me.’
‘Yes, I can understand why you’d like to believe that. But surely you can’t, not anymore. I saw your tears when you looked down the hill yesterday. When you saw her, whipping the horse into a lather, the seat next to her occupied by a dog rather than you. And you still wish to defend her?’
‘I will not say anything else,’ said Grogan.
‘Very well. You rest your voice, for now. At least until the table arrives. Then, however, things will become … official. Mr Monsarrat here will be transcribing your evidence. So by all means save it for then.’
