by Judy Nunn
Throughout the whole of the following week Mick had pondered the subject. The identity of Eileen’s benefactor had ceased to be of interest to him once he’d discounted the man as competition for her affection, but now the possibility that it could be Silas Stanford had rekindled a desperate need to know. And the more he thought about it, the more everything fell into place. With the Stanford home in Macquarie Street and the location of Eileen’s cottage in Battery Point, how very convenient it would be for Silas Stanford to simply walk up the hill to his mistress’s house.
So thoroughly convinced was Mick that he didn’t even consider spying upon the cottage. What would be the point? Silas Stanford was in Sydney. He would have to wait until the man’s return to discover the truth.
As it turned out, he did not need to wait that long at all.
‘If it isn’t Casanova.’
This Sunday began as a repeat of the previous one. Eileen made fun of him upon his arrival and in the bedroom she again flung his top hat over the bedpost. ‘I shall demand a full report in due course,’ she said as she started to undress him, ‘but first things first.’
Then afterwards, glowing from their exertions, she opened the conversation with her typical mixture of mockery and affection.
‘So come along, Mick, I’m dying to know: how fares the courtship of Miss Stanford? It’s been two whole Sundays. Are you engaged to be married yet?’
‘I’ve hit a bit of a snag I’m afraid.’
‘Oh dear, poor thing, what’s happened? Has she decided you’re not good enough after all?’
‘No, no, not for a minute, but I fear her so-called “guardians” are going to prove a problem.’
‘And who are her so-called guardians?’
‘Phyllis and Geoffrey Lyttleton.’
There was no need for explanation. Everyone in Hobart Town knew of the Lyttletons, just as everyone knew of the Stanfords.
‘I see,’ she said, ‘and the Lyttletons are presenting a problem, are they? In what way?’
‘Phyllis has taken umbrage at my audacity in courting Amy. She’s bound to elicit her husband’s support, and between them they’ll turn Stanford against me.’
‘What a pity,’ she said, ‘what a terrible pity,’ and she left it at that, the subject no longer appearing of any great interest.
But casually as she played the scene, she was not casual enough. He had seen the involuntary flicker in her eyes. Upon the very second he’d uttered the name, Mick had known the truth. Silas Stanford was not Eileen’s benefactor. Geoffrey Lyttleton was. And the knowledge opened up a whole new realm of possibility. How extraordinarily fortuitous, he thought.
‘Yes, it is a pity,’ he said, ‘but I do not intend to give up easily. Not with half the battle won.’
‘Which particular half would that be?’
‘Amy. I do believe she is falling in love with me.’
‘Of course she is. What woman wouldn’t?’ Eileen smiled. ‘And are you falling in love with her?’ she asked lightly.
‘I believe I am a little.’ He ran his fingers over her breasts. ‘Which would make life very pleasant all round.’
He intended no confrontation. She would make no admission anyway, and he did not wish her to know of the plan already forming in his mind.
Mick wisely decided to seek stronger evidence than the flicker of recognition he’d seen in Eileen’s eyes and, after giving some thought to his subject, he caught Geoffrey Lyttleton out with remarkable ease.
There was no need to lie in wait for hours spying on the cottage. The stylish trap Geoffrey drove into town from his stately home in the foothills of Mount Wellington was instantly recognisable. Mick discovered that, as a rule, the horse and vehicle were accommodated at the coach house in Liverpool Street just a block up the road from the offices of Lyttleton Holdings & Investment. But when Geoffrey visited Battery Point to call upon his shipping agent, or to conduct his ongoing crusade for the completion of St George’s Church, or indeed to confer with Jefferson Powell upon some charitable concern for the society, the horse and trap were housed at the stables of McLagan Road Transport.
It was simple to pop into McLagan’s intermittently throughout the day and check on the bay gelding and trap. And it was simple, upon discovering them there on the afternoon of the very second day, to set himself up in a secure spot a good distance from Eileen’s house and wait, knowing exactly from which direction the man would appear.
How clever of Geoffrey Lyttleton to become so openly involved in the neighbourhood, Mick thought as he watched the familiar figure stride down Hampden Road. Geoffrey had any number of reasons to be in Battery Point, and each was a front, particularly St George’s. He didn’t even appear furtive as he turned into the track that led to Eileen’s back door, and indeed why should he? He could well have been canvassing support amongst the parishioners in his fervent campaign for the completion of the Mariners’ Church.
Mick put his plan into action the very next day.
The very next day happened to be Christmas Eve, a fact that proved to his advantage, or so he thought at the time. Upon visiting Geoffrey Lyttleton’s offices at ten o’clock, he was told by the clerk at the front desk that Mr Lyttleton would not be coming in until the late afternoon, after which he would work through into the evening hours.
‘We close for three full working days over Christmas,’ young Frederick said, ‘and Mr Lyttleton likes to ensure all is in order. Everyone else gets to leave at four,’ he added waspishly on the assumption his complaint was finding a sympathetic ear, ‘but I am required to attend the front desk and lock up the premises when he leaves.’
‘Thank you,’ Mick replied briskly, ‘I shall call back later.’ How very convenient, he thought, the place will be virtually deserted.
‘Of course, sir.’ Frederick was suddenly nervous. He’d presumed that, being roughly the same age, the young man was an underling like himself, a fellow overworked clerk on an errand for his employer, but such a confident manner signified he might perhaps be a personal acquaintance of Mr Lyttleton’s. ‘May I make an appointment for you, Mr . . .?’ He left the query hanging.
‘No, no,’ Mick replied airily, ‘it’s nothing of great importance – just a bit of business for the Philanthropic Society.’
‘Ah yes, of course,’ Frederick said with a smile that he hoped would ingratiate, ‘Mr Lyttleton is untiring in his commitment to the society. I shall tell him you called, Mr . . .?’
But Mick simply smiled and gave a wave as he walked off. ‘Do, do,’ he said and the bell tinkled as he closed the door behind him.
Now, strolling up Harrington Street in the heat of the afternoon, Mick slowed to an amble. It was not yet quite four and he didn’t wish to arrive at the offices before the staff had left, or indeed before Geoffrey had arrived.
He halted altogether at the corner of Macquarie Street where a group was gathered outside St Joseph’s Church singing Christmas carols. Other passers-by, too, had stopped to listen, many putting a coin in the poor-box proffered by the priest, and Mick added a coin of his own in the hope that a kindly action might lend him good luck for what lay ahead.
‘God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay . . .’
He stayed for a good fifteen minutes enjoying the familiar carols. He recalled Christmases past when as a small child he’d stood up to his knees in snow singing with his older brothers and sisters at the doors of the rich. But here in this dusty street, on this hot afternoon, under this still merciless sun and this cloudless sky, the songs, familiar as they were, had become foreign. They were songs of the north, songs of a different hemisphere, a different climate, a different habitat altogether. Mick looked around at the crowd that had slowly gathered. Had any of them adjusted to this strangeness yet? No, of course they haven’t, he thought, as he watched women fanning their faces and men wiping away the sweat that poured from their brows. Would any of them ever adjust? It was impossible to imagine that they could. Apart from its obvious rel
igious significance, Christmas was destined to remain an anomaly in this upside-down land.
He walked on, crossing over Collins Street. People were bustling busily about, making last-minute purchases, greeting each other and exchanging season’s greetings. There was an air of festive expectancy that Mick found just a little desperate.
Turning right into Liverpool Street, he headed directly for Lyttleton Holdings & Investment, where he bounded up the stone steps and made a bold entrance, closing the door firmly behind him, its bell still tinkling as he crossed to the front desk.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The clerk greeted him. ‘I told Mr Lyttleton that a gentleman called on society business, and –’
‘Mr O’Callaghan,’ Mick said. ‘Tell him Mr O’Callaghan is here to see him.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The clerk left through the door to the side that led to the offices, re-appearing only seconds later.
‘Mr Lyttleton says he will –’ But he didn’t get any further as Geoffrey Lyttleton himself emerged.
‘Mr O’Callaghan, what a pleasant surprise.’ Geoffrey smiled a welcome and offered his hand, but Mick could tell by the steely glint in his eyes that he did not consider the surprise pleasant at all.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Lyttleton,’ he said as they shook, ‘I just popped in to discuss some business on behalf of the society.’
‘Yes, yes, so Frederick here told me, although as you left no name I couldn’t for the life of me think to whom he might be referring.’ The cheeky young upstart, Geoffrey thought, pop in indeed! How dare he presume such intimacy, and what business could he possibly have to discuss on behalf of the society. But still, he might have been sent by Jefferson Powell. ‘Do come in, Mr O’Callaghan.’
Frederick held the door open for them and Mick followed Geoffrey. They crossed through a deserted secretarial office and into an opulent oak-panelled room that was Geoffrey Lyttleton’s private realm.
‘Take a seat.’ After closing the door, Geoffrey indicated a rosewood carver and circled his mahogany desk, which was deliberately and intimidatingly large. He sat in the Queen Anne walnut elbow chair that was his personal throne. ‘I presume you’re on an errand for Jefferson?’ He managed to sound pleasant while making Mick’s inferior status thoroughly understood.
Mick had contemplated standing as he conducted his business, but something about Lyttleton’s condescension now caused him to change his mind. He sat, refusing to be daunted, and leant back in his chair, languidly crossing his legs.
‘No, I’m not on an errand for Jefferson,’ he said, ‘I’m here with regard to a personal matter.’
‘Oh? And what personal matter could that possibly be?’ Geoffrey dropped any pretence of pleasantness. The cheek of the fellow!
‘The personal matter of my relationship with Amy Stanford.’
‘Well you’ve certainly incurred the wrath of my wife there,’ Geoffrey said scathingly. So this is the reason for such outrageous overfamiliarity, he thought. Having wormed his way into Amy’s affections, the young scoundrel presumed it gave him some claim to an acquaintanceship with her friends.
‘Yes, I have rather upset your wife, haven’t I?’ Mick agreed. ‘Which is why I’m here. I’d like you to call Phyllis off.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Geoffrey wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly. Call Phyllis off? What, call her off, like a dog? What on earth did the fellow mean?
‘I would like you to instruct your wife . . . No, no,’ Mick corrected himself, ‘I would like you to order your wife to cause no interference in my courtship of Amy –’
‘Why the deuce would I do that?’
‘– and I would like you to tell your wife,’ Mick continued, oblivious to Geoffrey’s outburst, ‘that your reason for issuing such an order is your thorough approval of my suit. In fact, I would be most obliged if you would also make your approval known to Silas Stanford upon his return.’
Geoffrey was flabbergasted. ‘What sort of lunatic are you, boy? You do realise, don’t you, that you’ve now thoroughly ruined your chances? I couldn’t have cared tuppence whether you married the girl or not: if she’s fool enough to give herself to a wastrel that’s her business.’ He stood. It was time to put an end to this idiocy. ‘You can rest assured, Mr O’Callaghan, that as of this very minute I shall join my wife in preventing your union with Miss Stanford.’
Mick also stood. ‘No you won’t.’
‘And why not, pray?’
‘Because if you do, your wife, and your son and your daughter and their children, and indeed all of Hobart Town will be informed that you keep a mistress in a house in Battery Point, and that you have done so for the past two years. Where will your fine reputation be then, Geoffrey, when the whole world knows about Red?’
Geoffrey Lyttleton sank back into his chair in a state of shock, his knees literally giving way beneath him, his face ashen: not for one minute had he anticipated this.
Mick was gratified by the reaction. He had been unsure of quite what to expect, but the utter dread he now saw in Geoffrey’s eyes told him he’d won. If the news of Red were made public the man would be unveiled for the hypocrite he was and thoroughly ruined, as he very well knew.
Following the initial shock, Geoffrey to his credit recovered very quickly.
‘So I presume this will be an ongoing form of blackmail?’ he queried icily after a moment’s pause. ‘I pay you a sum of money here and now, and then over time you keep coming back for more. That’s the way scum like you operate, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all,’ Mick replied, and he once again sat. ‘I want no more than your assistance in my courtship of Amy Stanford.’
‘I see.’ Geoffrey nodded. Another pause, and then he continued in a businesslike manner, rather as if he were conducting a board meeting. ‘Who else knows about Red?’
‘No-one knows but me. I swear it on my mother’s life.’
‘And how did you find out?’
Mick responded with his carefully prepared answer, aware that he must protect Eileen at all costs. ‘I’ve been following you ever since your wife threatened to ruin my chances,’ he said. ‘I’d hoped to find out something that might pressure you into calling her off.’ He shrugged, ‘perhaps a visit to a brothel or some such misdemeanour. Then I saw Red coming out of that house, and I knew I’d got lucky.’
‘How do you know Red?’
‘I don’t. But I’ve been to Trafalgar on the odd occasion, when I can afford it, after a good run at the card table. I recognised her.’
‘I see,’ Geoffrey said again. He appeared to accept the explanation, but his mind was obviously ticking over as he considered a course of action. ‘And you expect me to believe you when you say there will be no further demands, and that no-one else knows?’
‘Yes, you have my word in both instances . . .’ Eileen’s warning sounded a sudden alarm in Mick’s brain. ‘Take care, Mick. These pillars of society with whom you’re mingling are ruthless men.’
‘Although there is one precaution I’ve taken that I feel I must point out,’ he continued. ‘I have left a sealed envelope with my lawyer, which is to be opened should I meet with any unexpected accident.’
‘Have you really?’ Geoffrey’s smile was singularly unpleasant. This part of the story he did not believe for one minute. What lawyer? he thought scornfully. The little bastard is lying through his teeth. He doesn’t have a lawyer – his sort of scum never do.
It was at that moment that Geoffrey Lyttleton’s mind turned to the brand new Adams revolver which sat in the desk’s top drawer, its chambers fully loaded. How simple it would be, he thought. There was no-one around but young Frederick, and young Frederick was both gullible and obedient. The Irishman was out to rob me from the start, he’d say, and young Frederick would be bound to agree that he’d had no alternative but to shoot the felon.
‘In the event of my death under suspicious circumstances,’ Mick went on smoothly, ‘three letters will be posted.’ He w
as thinking on his feet – there was no envelope, no lawyer and no letters – but he could sense danger in Geoffrey Lyttleton. ‘One is addressed to your wife, one to the Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society, and one to The Mercury newspaper.’ He smiled confidently, the way he did when he held a poker hand worth nothing. ‘I thought that should just about cover things.’
Across the sea of mahogany they eyed one another like card players, each trying to read the other’s mind.
‘Well, well,’ Geoffrey said finally, ‘you have been busy.’ He knew, as they both did, that he dared not call the Irishman’s bluff.
‘I take it we have reached an agreement?’ Mick asked.
‘We have.’
‘Excellent. Then perhaps you will start by persuading your good wife that Amy be permitted to accompany me to the Powells’ home for Christmas luncheon tomorrow. She will of course be suitably chaperoned by Mrs Powell.’
‘As you wish.’ Geoffrey stood abruptly and without another word led the way back to the reception area where Frederick snapped to attention.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lyttleton,’ Mick said, ‘and may I take this opportunity to wish you and Mrs Lyttleton and the family a very merry Christmas?’
‘Season’s greetings indeed, Mr O’Callaghan.’
‘Merry Christmas, Frederick,’ Mick said to the clerk.
‘Why thank you, sir, and a merry Christmas to you too.’
As the door bell tinkled behind him, Mick told himself that he really must get a lawyer, and the sooner the better for safety’s sake.
Christmas luncheon at the Powells was just as Doris had predicted it would be – a raucous affair. Jefferson had invited those of his employees without families, a good dozen or so, and mostly young men. Indeed, apart from Doris, only two other women were expected to be present: Pauline, the young widow who took bookings at the office of McLagan Road Transport, and Ada, the girl who came in twice a week to mind the children while Doris did the shopping. As it eventuated, however, there was a fourth woman present – Amy Stanford.
