An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘I see them,’ said Hamilton following Davidson’s line of sight to where three men on horseback trotted in single formation. The men were clear of a ridge of timber and followed the road towards the homestead. ‘Come on,’ Hamilton said irritably, wondering how in the hell the aboriginal man knew there were strangers approaching and more importantly who the interlopers were.

  They rode cross-country, manoeuvring through the wavering grass on the small tree-less plain, a continent in itself surrounded as it was by scrubby bushes, prickly invaders and dense stands of trees.

  Davidson didn’t slow and as they rode closer to the road, Hamilton understood why. This wasn’t the Chinese who he’d been expecting any day. These were mounted police. Hamilton stole a look at the stockman. He was yet to report Fernleigh to the constabulary. Maybe the manager had got in first.

  ‘Damnation.’ Hamilton choked back the spittle catching in his throat. An impressive array of excuses sprung to mind, none of which were plausible. A man could explain that he was owed recompense. Couldn’t he? He did have detailed notes, with dates and times, good enough for any court of law, but still … ‘Can they find those sheep, Davidson?’

  The stockman gave the usual stony stare. Sometimes, just sometimes, it would be helpful if the aboriginal could talk.

  The three policemen, having caught sight of them, waited patiently on the road until the two groups met. A swirl of dust swept past the law officers, dissipating on the choppy breeze. Hamilton wondered if the policemen would drop any charges in exchange for a couple of killers. Three apiece perhaps. Or maybe funds were required. There was usually an angle to be had there. Fancy dresses for wives and mistresses, tickets to a show in Brisbane. Improvements to the police station. There were always ways and means. Always. The problem was in being able to gauge whether the intended recipient was receptive.

  ‘Mr Baker?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hamilton on halting the mare, noting the clipped tone of the ruddy-faced sergeant. He was English with the type of accent that suggested a dedicated attempt to hide poor beginnings, a short but perfectly waxed moustache not helping his impersonation.

  ‘I’m Hamilton Baker and this is my stockman, Davidson,’ he explained.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Fredericks. I have received information regarding a theft that I wanted to discuss.’

  ‘A theft?’ Hamilton did his best to sound noncommittal. So Fernleigh had put him in to the coppers. Well, the hairy ingrate would pay for this. Pay well and truly. There was no doubt he was a reprobate of the highest order, a man unqualified for the role of manager, uneducated, unkempt and, Hamilton decided, undoubtedly a buggerer of boys – and if he wasn’t, Hamilton would make it his business for the world to think Fernleigh was.

  ‘What theft?’ asked Hamilton, with the air of concern befitting a leading citizen. ‘It’s a bit late in the day for a house call, isn’t it, Sergeant?’

  ‘You did attend the circus at Wywanna on Saturday night, did you not? Along with a …’ The sergeant consulted a pocketbook. ‘A Mrs Zane.’ He read. ‘And your son and daughter?’

  ‘What?’ Hamilton stuttered a yes to Mrs Zane’s presence as he processed the pleasing revelation that the policemen’s visit was nothing to do with his merinos. Well then, this was quite different. Clearly the police were investigating the theft at the circus and were interviewing everyone of note. Hamilton should have known that Fernleigh didn’t have the necessary gumption to complain to the law. A grubby manager trying to outwit a landowner. Ludicrous.

  ‘Your children, Mr Baker?’ the sergeant pressed.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ answered Hamilton. ‘My son was at Wywanna on business during the day. Well, Davidson was with him. Weren’t you, Davidson? Can’t speak I’m afraid.’

  The aboriginal remained impassive.

  ‘Can’t or won’t, Mr Baker?’ The sergeant’s mouth curled a little at the corners.

  Hamilton wished he could give the nod to Davidson. One gesture from him, just one, and the policeman’s mocking tone would quickly be replaced by a punch to the face.

  ‘Don’t take blind obedience for intelligence, Mr Baker.’ The two young constables flanking the sergeant looked along the road where pigeons strutted about in the dirt, tail feathers fanned and wings outstretched. ‘Dogs have more ability than these natives do. Even a half-caste such as Davidson here. He’s been with you for some time I believe?’

  ‘Many years. He simply walked in from the scrub, didn’t you, Davidson? So I gave him a job.’

  The officer stared at the stockman as if weighing up Hamilton’s words. ‘Very well. Perhaps we could discuss things further on the way to your homestead.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hamilton was in no mood to entertain, particularly at this hour. The sun was close to throwing afternoon shadows and they were not a household used to receiving guests. However, there was no choice but to offer hospitality, particularly as it seemed the sergeant was not the type to be induced. And so they trotted their horses along the rutted road.

  ‘You’ve been busy I see,’ noted Fredericks, ensuring his horse kept pace. ‘Sheep work, yes?’

  Hamilton bristled. ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘The smell, the stench of wool and dust. You’d think that being surrounded by sheep and woolgrowers in this district I’d be accustomed to it.’

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Hamilton wiped at his dusty face with a handkerchief, pristine in its whiteness. ‘We only keep a handful for killers.’

  He was relieved when the house came into view, although the denseness of the orchard darkened one side of the building so that it appeared small and rather nondescript.

  ‘You like trees, Mr Baker?’ asked Fredericks.

  What sort of question was that? ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Everyone is intent on clearing their land of them. I’m glad to see you appreciate the odd specimen, in your garden at least.’

  ‘The land’s unviable enough as it is what with this blasted prickly pear, without a tree-covered paddock to contend with as well.’

  ‘And yet you plant them,’ noted the sergeant, as the green of the orange and lemon trees grew recognisable. ‘As for the pear, Captain Arthur Phillip’s determination to create a cochineal industry in the colony has certainly left a legacy.’

  ‘Well, your countrymen have always liked their pretty red uniforms,’ responded Hamilton thoughtlessly.

  ‘I believe they are your countrymen as well,’ Fredericks retaliated. ‘The early colonies were a vast social experiment, Mr Baker. An attempt to create a whole society through forced labour at an extraordinary distance from the civilised world. There were bound to be a few hiccups. Could we have done better, you and I?’ He paused. ‘I think not.’

  Hamilton was still trying to formulate a response as they rode between the silver-barked gums. The dogs rushed out at their arrival, growling and barking at the unknown men, snapping at the heels of the strange horses, drying leaves swirling into the air. Hamilton shooed the canines to quiet as he dismounted. Unasked, Davidson called the dogs away to be tied up as the men tethered their mounts at the rail. ‘You and your men will have some tea, Sergeant Fredericks?’ He led them up onto the verandah, offering the three men seats.

  ‘Please,’ Sergeant Fredericks interrupted, ‘we are not here to disturb your household. I would, however, like my men to take a walk around the grounds if possible. Inspect the buildings.’ He brushed dust from the tabletop as he sat.

  The request was quite unexpected. ‘Why of course, but may I ask what you are looking for?’ At the nod of the officer-in-charge, the younger policemen quickly walked around the corner of the house.

  Seated at the verandah table, Fredericks turned the pages of a notebook. ‘A number of witnesses can confirm the fact that your son, Aiden, attended the circus menagerie last Saturday.’

  ‘The menagerie?’ Hamilton repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed the sergeant. ‘Oh, and they said he was accompanied by an aboriginal and that you
r son left the showgrounds in a buggy.’

  ‘A buggy? Davidson, what high jinks have been going on behind my back?’

  The aboriginal, untying the reins of his horse from the hitching rail, met the two pairs of querying eyes, barely pausing in his movements.

  ‘And your daughter?’ continued the sergeant.

  ‘My daughter was home all night,’ Hamilton responded, frowning at his employee, who left, leading their two horses. Was it possible that Aiden attended the circus?

  ‘Actually, it appears she wasn’t,’ the officer corrected. ‘A Mrs Hilton stated that your daughter Edwina was also seen at the menagerie, dressed as a man, in the company of, shall we say, some quite modern young ladies.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything more preposterous,’ said Hamilton. ‘Never.’ Where was this gossip coming from? He’d done nothing to deserve such troublemaking.

  ‘Yes, well, I believe the young lady caused quite a stir.’

  A feeling of dread leached its way into his body. Hamilton recalled the expression on the face of the Hilton matriarch at the circus. The busybody knew something was afoot that night, he was of no doubt.

  ‘Are you aware that a lion cub was stolen from the circus on Saturday night?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ answered Hamilton brusquely, swatting away a fly. ‘Everyone was talking about it.’

  ‘Well, Mr Baker, it seems that a young woman matching Mrs Hilton’s description of your daughter was seen moments before the animal was stolen and then again running after the culprit. One of the circus performers admitted to helping the young woman when she was injured after a supposed attack.’

  ‘Which woman?’ demanded Hamilton.

  ‘A Miss Jacqueline April. The fat lady.’

  The pillar of lard that passed for entertainment. He didn’t mean to laugh. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I’m quite serious,’ responded the sergeant. ‘There were drovers camped at Mrs Landry’s Inn on Saturday night. They recalled seeing a buggy go past trailed by an aboriginal. Later that same evening one of the drovers recalled speaking with a young couple who stopped to water their horse. They were riding double, Mr Baker, and the girl accompanying the young man matched the description given of your daughter.’

  ‘Impossible,’ stated Hamilton.

  ‘The problem with beauty is that it tends to be recalled.’

  Hamilton knew he should be able to respond intelligently. ‘I don’t believe it. It must be a case of mistaken identity.’

  ‘And the man seen with your daughter? I assume he returned her home? Do you know who he was?’

  ‘I wasn’t here, Sergeant. However, I assure you that we have no new employees.’

  ‘I have to search your premises, Mr Baker; you understand that, I’m sure. If we do find anything I will have to interview everyone on the property.’

  This was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster. The man actually thought the stolen lion cub was here.

  ‘Do you think it possible that your daughter was involved, Mr Baker?’ the sergeant probed.

  What could he say? The facts suggested a terrible truth. ‘She has always been so obedient. Edwina has only just turned twenty and is yet to be introduced to public life.’

  The sergeant considered this. ‘If she was involved, Mr Baker –’

  The man didn’t have to utter the words. Stealing. His daughter a thief. Edwina would be ruined. He would be ruined. The family would be ruined. Good Lord, was it possible?

  ‘I do understand the ramifications of this for a man in your position.’

  The sergeant was still talking. Hamilton heard nothing. He watched the man’s lips beneath the thick hair as the word ramification kept repeating itself in his mind. He tried to compose himself, but the best Hamilton could do was to remember to breathe. If Edwina had disgraced herself – and the coincidences were almost too great to doubt – they would have to leave. Sell up. Move interstate. No-one could remain in this district with such a stain besmirching their name. And Gloria. Would his beloved gather up her Egyptian trinkets and disappear as well? He needed to salvage what he could. Immediately. He was sorry for it but what other measure could be taken? ‘I find it difficult to believe that my daughter could do such a thing.’ There was only one excuse he could use to save the family from disgrace and his daughter from her own terrible waywardness, if indeed she was implicated in the matter. ‘It pains me to say it, Sergeant, but if, if my daughter was involved in this dreadful event I can only put it down to the fragility of Edwina’s mental state. My daughter,’ he stretched the words out, ‘takes after her mother. And Caroline, my dear Caroline, spent her final days in an asylum.’

  ‘I see.’ Sergeant Fredericks closed the notebook.

  ‘It is not common knowledge.’

  ‘So you believe that if your daughter was involved in this incident that it was a case of misadventure, of a young fragile woman being misled?’

  ‘I know my daughter, sir,’ answered Hamilton. ‘She is erratic in temperament. Equal parts melancholic and forthright.’ He thought of Edwina’s obsessive attitude towards Caroline’s tree, of her outspoken nature, the facts reinforcing certainty. ‘However, I do not believe that she rode into town dressed as a man with the intention of attending the circus when she has never left this property unless accompanied by myself or her brother. If she did. If what you say is true, then it shocks me to the core and I can only say, with the heaviest of hearts, that reason left my daughter and someone else must be held accountable for that.’

  ‘And you had no-one employed on the property that may have coerced your daughter if that is what indeed occurred?’

  Hamilton said no immediately. Will Kew was still among them, his reappearance coinciding with the circus weekend. But to mention the boy’s name was to entice further investigation.

  ‘If my men don’t find anything, Mr Baker, I will not implicate your daughter in the theft. The reward for the return of the lion cub is substantial and it is the cub,’ he said more kindly than Hamilton would have expected, ‘that is my primary concern, not harming the reputations of our delicate womenfolk.’

  Hamilton appreciated the sentiment and said so; however, the damage was already done. People would talk. The sergeant to his wife. The wife to a friend. The young constables to lovers or family members. They waited for the search to be concluded as a lifting wind blew the earth in waves across the ground.

  ‘The district could do with a fall of rain,’ remarked the sergeant. ‘I am sorry for your troubles, Mr Baker.’

  Hamilton met the man’s gaze. ‘As am I.’

  ‘If the cub is found, your daughter –’

  Hamilton lifted his hand for silence. ‘Please.’

  The young constables reappeared, their boots crunching the leaf-litter. Hamilton knew as soon as he saw their expressions that they were empty-handed. That was something at least.

  ‘We found nothing, Sergeant,’ the elder of the two constables stated.

  ‘And you searched all the buildings thoroughly?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The knot of apprehension sitting in Hamilton’s chest untwisted itself just a little. ‘You will stay for supper,’ he said, dreading an evening in the company of these men with his children at the table. ‘I can offer you a roof over your head, Sergeant, and your men the relative comfort of the stables.’ It took an inordinate amount of willpower to remain composed.

  ‘Actually we have already availed ourselves of beds at Mrs Landry’s Inn, but I thank you for the offer.’ He stood to leave.

  ‘It is I who thank you.’

  He waited until the policemen were some distance away, and when they were out of earshot, Hamilton bellowed for Davidson. The stockman appeared promptly and Hamilton wondered if the man had been eavesdropping. ‘You let Aiden take the buggy to town and allowed him to attend that infernal petting zoo? What the hell has been going on around here, Davidson? You know Aiden isn’t allowed to use the buggy. And what’s this nonsense
regarding Edwina’s supposed involvement? Did you see her? Is there any credence to what the sergeant said? The man practically accused her of theft. God’s holy trousers, I turn my back for one minute and the world’s gone mad. Well, what are you still doing here? Get back to those blasted sheep and let them out of the yards.’

  Hamilton observed the black man as he rode away. This was one of those times when he would have liked to have been able to shake the words from the aboriginal’s mouth. To learn what things were left unsaid that should be told. If the sergeant was right, and clearly Aiden Baker driving a buggy with an aboriginal in tow was an easy sight to recall, then it was also true, based on the witnesses, that Edwina had gone to the circus as well. Davidson either carried little authority with his children or the stockman didn’t see guardianship as part of his role. As of this moment, Hamilton realised that Davidson was somewhat of a liability.

  He bashed the table with his fist, his mind teeming with images: of Aiden driving into town, of Edwina disobeying his express orders and riding into Wywanna alone dressed as a man? And who were these modern women she was seen with? Did they all think him a fool?

  Hamilton strode back and forth along the verandah, his hands clasped behind his back, as the anger inside him grew. The more he stomped across the floorboards, the angrier he became. And with each stride, his fury transformed itself into resentment. Everything he’d done in life was for the advancement of this family. What man could have done more? And a family that he’d committed to raising alone when his once young, beguiling wife had lost herself to self-pity with the excuse of loneliness. As if it were his fault that she couldn’t adjust to country living, away from family and friends. Caroline. Caroline. Caroline. Caroline and her blasted tree. Caroline and her exasperating, dreamy, fragile nature. Caroline and her melancholy. Caroline, mother to his rebellious, thankless children.

  Without realising, he’d walked away from the house to stand among the eucalypts, kicking at the strips of papery bark littering the ground. He was exhausted. Sweat plastered his brow and his hands tremored. He sighed at the homestead, large and solid among the wooded grove, the blasted orchard planted with such pride. It was a nuisance now, with its ground-splattering rotting fruit, the rancid sweet scent, the annoying hiss of wind through the leaves, the creak of knotted, too-old boughs. The dirty, decaying mass of leaves that swirled and piled and matted the ground, worse than any dust storm.