He was jolted back to his presence on the dance floor when Ginger hooked her hand firmly through his arm and steered him to the side exit.
‘It’s hot as Hades in here. Let’s get a dose of fresh air. I’m desperate for a ciggy. One puff behind the bar and old Yeoman would boot me out onto the street.’
Finch did not smoke but he took her unlit cigarette and asked another man for a light. On his return to her, Ginger inhaled deeply then with a provocative smile, tried to place it between his lips.
‘Go on, Finch, you know you want it. And I’m just the girl to give it to you.’
No two ways about her meaning. Finch reminded himself he had a role to play – the man with no memory.
‘That’s a lovely offer, Ginger. But before I get involved with any girl, I need to find out whether I’m single or married with kids.’
‘I’d be happy to entertain you in the meantime, Finch.’
Ginger toyed with her cigarette then tossed it to the ground.
Ever mindful of the hazards of starting a bushfire, Finch automatically swivelled his heel to stamp out the butt.
Ginger playfully gripped his ears to draw his face down to her level and covered his mouth with a kiss that left no doubt about the invitation. Her eyes were closed. Finch counted the seconds before he could politely withdraw. What the hell. Why waste my time trying to win Rom’s woman – she’s made it clear she doesn’t want a bar of me. Yet despite that knowledge he kept an eye on the path in case Clytie decided to appear.
The fiddlers were now playing a lusty polka but Ginger was in no mood to break free from the kiss. Finch gave himself up to the pleasure of it. It was then he recognised the man watching him from the shadows of the bush.
Larger than life. And his timing is perfect!
Rom Delaney’s stance was cocksure, his hat on the back of his head, a trail of smoke rising from his cigar. He grinned at Finch and raised his thumb in a sign of approval.
Finch’s hand was behind Ginger’s back holding her against his chest. He discreetly raised his thumb to return Rom’s signal.
Chapter 37
‘Don’t look at me, like that, Shadow. It’s a woman’s privilege to change her mind,’ Clytie reminded the Kelpie as she ordered him to wait for her outside the entrance to the Mechanics Institute. ‘I won’t be long. A couple of whirls around the dance floor and I’ll be out of here. I’ll bring you something nice to eat.’
She offered the ticket-seller her money.
‘Mr Finch left a ticket for you, Miss Hart. Good of you to support our cause.’
A woman of tact, Mrs Binstead did not ask if Clytie had any news of her missing fiancé, but her eyes were full of silent sympathy. No doubt she meant well.
Rom’s missing, not dead, lady. I can feel he’s so close he could walk through the door at any moment.
Clytie stood framed in the doorway, half pleased, half defiant that she had broken the unwritten law against ‘barmaids and undesirables’ joining the so-called elite of Hoffnung.
There was a break between dances. Mick and Proddie downed their fiddles and hot-footed it to the kitchen to be plied with tea and cakes before slipping outside the hall to pass the whisky hipflask back and forth between them in silence.
Through the windows of the hall the light fell in shafts across the rough ground covered with fallen leaves and gumnuts that crunched under the footsteps of those who had gone outside to smoke – or have a discreet fumble under the cover of darkness. The red tips of cigarettes glowed in the dark like the eyes of bush animals caught in the glare of a lantern.
Clytie felt a lurch of nostalgia at the sight of two lovers outlined on the rim between darkness and light. Locked in an embrace, their bodies were as one.
How long ago since Rom and I stood like that, oblivious to the world around us? How long before I hold him in my arms again?
Tears threatened to spring unbidden to her eyes, but they dried when she recognised the two figures as they pulled apart. Ginger, unmistakeable even though for once wearing a modest blue gown, was firmly hooked arm in arm with a tall man. Clytie felt a sudden flash of unease. Pushing her way through the couples returning to the dance floor, she hurried out the main door and whistled Shadow to follow her. The circle of light from the sole streetlamp danced across the quartz stones then lost her as she broke into a run through the darkness towards the safety of the priest’s house.
I should never have come. Finch is a free agent. I have no right to feel . . . whatever it is I’m feeling.
Shadow was not himself tonight. He bounded ahead of her but in sight of her house he froze and growled. Clytie didn’t break her stride until she saw the outline of a horse tethered a short distance past the house. No saddle. A stray. Or someone has left it there to graze. If no one claims him, I could do with a horse like that.
Shadow continued to snarl as he blocked her entrance to the door, determined to hinder her from placing the key in the lock. The door was slightly ajar.
‘I’m in such a muddle I forgot to lock the door. Shadow, what on earth are you carrying on about? Is there a snake inside or what?’
She pushed the door open, annoyed when Shadow gripped the hem of her skirt in his mouth determined to pull her away.
‘Stop that, Shadow, you’ll tear my dress!’
She felt blindly for the place she kept the matches and lit the lamp to explore the cause of his disobedience.
The arc of light came to rest on the corner of the room. The rocking chair was empty – but it remained rocking gently. The hairs stood up on the back of Clytie’s neck. This was certainly not the work of a snake.
The man’s face was blanched white by the lamplight, a flickering meld of black and white shadows like an image in the Biograph she had seen long ago in Melbourne. His voice was dark, slurred, and aroused a dozen ugly memories.
‘Well, if it isn’t the Knife-Thrower’s Daughter herself.’
‘Get out of my house, Vlad. There’s nothing here for you.’
‘Wrong, Little Clytie. There’s everything here for me. I’m family, remember?’
‘That word is an obscenity in your mouth.’
Vlad was seated at the deal table, playing with the tip of his knife, the blade of which he had used to scratch the letter ‘V’ onto the table top. Clytie saw that the description in Pedro’s postcard was true. Vlad’s hands were indeed badly gnarled by arthritis but she was not going to risk him using Shadow as a target.
‘It’s all right, Shadow. Outside, boy!’
Shadow obeyed with a marked show of reluctance.
Faking an attitude of indifference, Clytie crossed to the stove, struck a match to light the kindling wood and placed the iron kettle on the open ring.
‘Family? That’s a joke. Your idea of family is a man’s right to beat his women. Mother was afraid of you. Her daughter is not.’
‘You always were a feisty little kid,’ Vlad admitted. ‘And you’ve grown up to be quite a woman. You’re even lustier than your mother was when she was young.’
He paused in engraving his name on the table. The way his eyes wandered over her body gave Clytie instant recall of the time he had trapped her naked in the wagon.
He mustn’t know how vulnerable I am. Ginger has her hooks into Finch. Chances are he won’t return home till morning.
‘You must be earning a good screw at the pub, a lusty wench like you.’
‘None of your business, Vlad.’
‘I’m told Dolores made good money fleecing blokes in her so-called Tarot readings – on her back. Like Mother like daughter, eh?’
His smirk was insufferable. It was all Clytie could do to restrain herself from clawing his face. Her tongue was her only weapon of defence.
‘And what of you? It’s widely known your hands are crippled with arthritis – no circus wants a bar of you. Your knife-throwing act is on the scrap heap.’
Vlad gripped the handle of his knife and flashed the blade at her. ‘Don’t you believe
it, girlie, I could be a headline act in any Australian circus.’
She crossed the room. Using the table as a barrier between them she rested her hands on it to conceal their trembling, and leaned forward to deliver the words in what she hoped was a tone of soft menace.
‘And I could slit a man’s throat at thirty paces. You taught me well, Vlad.’
‘I did indeed.’ He gave a confident laugh to conceal the fact he had lost face. ‘We’ll make a great team. I’ll work up a new act – Vlad and the Knife-Thrower’s Daughter. But I’m not your father. So there’s no law against us having it off together.’
‘You are pathetic, Vlad.’
Too late. Her taunting words were a mistake. With lightning speed Vlad pinned down both her hands under one powerful, gnarled fist and held the tip of his knife at her throat, tracing it against her skin as if to sketch the letter ‘V’ into her flesh.
‘You silly little bitch! Hand over the money Dolores stole from me – that wad of notes she kept in her treasure chest.’ To reinforce his sarcastic words, his knife slashed through the neckline of her blouse to reveal her naked breast.
Clytie’s voice rose in a desperate attempt to conceal the quiver of fear in her words. ‘You’re too late. Mother’s money is long gone.’
She broke free and tried to cover herself.
‘Then it’s pay-back time. I’m your manager now, sweetheart. You’ll earn the money on your back.’
‘Over my dead body, she will!’
The soft, steely voice came from the shadows of the open door. Finch stood with legs planted wide, gripping the rifle he trained at Vlad’s head.
‘Let the lady go, or I’ll separate you from your balls – one by one. That’s if you have any balls.’
Vlad dropped the knife and gave a shrug of capitulation. ‘I’ll be on my way.’
‘Not so fast,’ Finch said.
His glance took in Clytie’s clumsy attempts to hold her torn blouse together. With one hand he tore the scarf from his throat and tossed it across to her.
She knotted one end around her neck to cover her breast and said politely, ‘Thank you.’
Finch jerked his head in the direction of the barn. ‘Bring me the rope – now!’
Clytie did not hesitate but at the door she screamed out, ‘No!’
Cornered, Vlad had panicked. He lunged at Finch, wrested the rifle from his hands, raised it and fired point blank at Finch’s face. The only sound was a soft metallic click.
Vlad’s jaw dropped. ‘It’s not loaded!’
‘I never waste a bullet on a mongrel,’ Finch said.
He threw himself bodily across the room, crashing Vlad to the floor, his hands around his throat as he repeatedly banged the man’s head against the floor.
Clytie’s blood ran cold at the expression on Finch’s face.
So that’s blood lust. Finch will kill him and be hanged for murder.
The next moment the two men’s bodies were reversed. Vlad was now astride Finch, one hand around his throat, the other pummelling his face with his fist, both of them instantly splattered with Finch’s blood.
As if cornered by a wild animal, Clytie acted on sheer instinct. She seized the iron frying pan, raised it above her head and brought it crashing down on the back of Vlad’s skull.
With a guttural roar he collapsed spread-eagled across Finch’s body. His face covered Finch’s bloody face like a grotesque mockery of a kiss.
Finch crawled out from under the heavy, inert body and staggered to his feet, angrily warding off Clytie’s attempts to mop his bloodied face.
‘Jesus, Clytie, you certainly know how to deflate a man’s ego. I’m the one who is supposed to protect you!’
‘You were. You were wonderful. But he might have killed you.’
Finch eyed her in embarrassment. ‘How about you do as you’re told for once? Fetch that rope from the barn – before this mongrel regains consciousness.’
Clytie returned with the coil of rope and handed it over obediently. With Finch’s scarf concealing her chest she looked like a small child in a highchair, her dress protected by a baby’s feeder.
‘Can I help you?’ Clytie asked politely.
Finch barely restrained himself. ‘Give me a break! I fought in the damned war. I know how to take a man prisoner.’
Within seconds he had roped Vlad’s legs together and tied his hands behind his back. With one end of the rope he loosely knotted a noose around his neck.
‘Is he still alive?’ Clytie asked as if the answer was of little relevance.
‘Who cares?’ Finch reached out to steady himself on the back of a chair. ‘I could do with a cup of tea,’ he admitted.
Clytie poured the tea into a mug and held it to his lips. ‘What do we do next?’
‘You do nothing. You never even saw Vlad, understand? I’ll get rid of the evidence – one way or another.’
‘You don’t mean Diggers’ Rough Justice – tossing him down an abandoned mine shaft?’
‘You’ve got a better idea?’
‘Yes! There’s a horse grazing outside – it must be Vlad’s. Tie his body over its back and leave the horse inside Sergeant Mangles’s horse paddock at the back of the police station. He’ll find Vlad in the morning, dead or alive. And no one will be any the wiser.’
Finch looked up in surprise. ‘Are you sure you haven’t done this kind of thing before?’
Clytie gave a resigned smile. ‘I should have done it years ago when he was beating up my mother. I didn’t have the courage. I wasn’t sure if she still loved him.’
Finch nodded thoughtfully. ‘Decent cup of tea,’ he said politely.
‘Sorry I’d run out of milk,’ she said, and gave a nervous giggle at the foolishness of her words at such a time.
‘Go to bed, Clytie. Turn out the light. I’ll take care of business.’
Finch took a deep breath then heaved the man’s huge body over his back and staggered out the door with it.
• • •
Leading the horse along the bush track strapped up with its human cargo, Finch was still tossing up whether or not to choose his preferred option and end Vlad’s days down some long abandoned mine shaft, when he saw Shadow bounding towards him, followed by the figure of a man.
Doc eyed the body slung over the horse. ‘Who’s that, all trussed up like a carcass of beef ready for the spit?’
‘He attacked Clytie with a knife.’
‘So that’s the reason Shadow was determined to drag me here.’ Doc ruefully eyed the tear in his ruined trousers. ‘A small price to pay. I can’t blame him for protecting Clytie.’
Doc examined the body’s bloodstained face, lifted the eyelids.
‘He’s still alive. Nasty crack on the head. I’ve seen him before. The Knife-Thrower was Dolores Hart’s partner.’
‘Yeah, Clytie’s step-father, poor kid,’ Finch said.
Doc patted the Kelpie’s ears. ‘Good boy, Shadow, you saved your mistress. You’re worth your weight in gold.’
Finch bit back the words. Seems everyone’s a hero except me.
‘Thanks, Doc, for coming out in the middle of the night.’
Doc shrugged it off. ‘All part of the job. May I make a suggestion about how to get rid of him?’
‘Why not? Everyone else has.’
‘It would be unwise for you and Clytie to be linked to this villain’s injuries – in case he doesn’t pull through. Leave him to me. I’ll tend his wounds and keep him sedated in case he tries to get frisky with me.’
‘Then what?’
‘Tomorrow I’ll have a word with Sergeant Mangles. Dolores Hart had her admirers – including Mangles. Vlad was a known wife-beater. I guarantee Mangles will ensure that this heap of rubbish never dares bother Clytie again.’
Finch was tired and frustrated but he remembered to thank Doc as he reluctantly handed across the horse’s reins.
‘I must admit I’m a bit disappointed, Doc. I rather fancied the idea of Diggers�
�� Rough Justice.’
‘Indeed it is a most tempting alternative,’ Doc agreed. ‘The problem is that sooner or later skeletons always turn up at the bottom of a mineshaft.’
As Doc led the horse away, Finch tossed in a casual final word.
‘By the way, Doc, I saw Rom again tonight. As large as life and twice as cocky. Have you seen him again?’
Doc hesitated. ‘No. But it seems Adelaide has.’
The darkness swallowed up man and beast except for the sound of their retreating footsteps.
Finch slowly made his way home, led by Shadow, who for once did not set a cracking pace, perhaps out of respect for his obvious injuries.
The priest’s house lay in darkness. Unbidden, Shadow took up his protective position, spread across the doorstep to keep guard all night.
Overcome by waves of fatigue Finch did not bother to remove any clothing except his boots. He lay under the blanket, watching the stars around the Southern Cross through the barn window, lulled by the feathery rustle of gum trees in the wind.
He knew he should be admiring Clytie’s courage, her quick thinking that might well have saved his life . . . the tenderness of her hands as she tried to bathe his wounds. Instead, one memory was uppermost in his mind: the sweet recurring image of the whiteness of her breast exposed by her torn blouse . . . and the look in her eyes when she covered herself with his scarf.
Was it simply gratitude? Or something more? Does she feel what I feel?
Chapter 38
The mysterious clock that young Harry Levi had delivered from ‘an unknown friend’ was an antique, charming and reliable. The hands showed seven o’clock and Clytie felt pleased she no longer had to calculate the shadows in the garden to judge the time. Her first hope was that the gift was from Rom. On second thoughts she suspected it could be Finch, who had witnessed her smashing her old clock in a rage. Whoever the giver was, she decided to respect their wish to remain anonymous.
Golden Hope Page 40
