by Alex Hammond
‘It was, but we were too busy looking into the Australian and British archives. Forest, trees and all that.’
‘We hadn’t looked to America.’
‘America?’
‘The British–American War of 1812. Hawk had a brother serving in occupied Maine.’
‘War of 1812?’
Stephenson-Wrigg laughed as Quayle chuckled. If it was at his ignorance at least they were good spirited about it.
She rolled up her sleeves, wobbling her pendulous forearms.
‘Hawk sent a letter in 1812 to his brother, Phillip,’ she said as Quayle passed her the report. ‘It’s part of a collection of wartime correspondence held by the Smithsonian. For our purposes the letter is otherwise unremarkable except for when he writes:
Were you to see through to the end of your service & enlist here in Sydney I could ensure that you are well looked after. There are some among us, men with stations of significance, who have joined in a private & profitable endeavour. I have set down a covenant between us, as such things bind stronger than handshakes. They have called it Hawk’s Covenant as a flattery, which I dislike as it runs ’gainst our purpose of secrecy. We have all agreed to lend our support to one another ahead of all others to enable profit & protection from the tyranny of all governors, kings & judges. By these means we plan to strengthen our claim in this colony.
‘This was over two hundred years ago. A hidden reference, but once we knew what we were looking for, it kept popping up in Australia’s history.’
‘Hawk’s Covenant?’
She drew back on her cigar, letting the smoke roll out of her mouth like some creature of myth.
‘Yes.’
‘A secret society?’
‘A group of powerful men who secretly used their positions to the advantage of other members of the group,’ said Quayle. ‘A criminal conspiracy.’
Will leant back in his chair, his head light with the revelation. ‘So this group is still around today? Over two hundred years later?’
He felt absurd saying it, but in speaking the words he knew he was conjuring substance to them.
‘Far-fetched, but possible.’
‘We’re talking about Sydney, though. How did the Covenant get to Melbourne? The New South Wales Corps was a long way away from Port Phillip.’
‘Good,’ said Quayle, clicking his fingers for the report to be returned. ‘You’ve been paying attention. In 1836 New South Wales sent four members of the Sydney police to serve in the district of Port Phillip. One was a constable called James Hawk. While Patricia was searching for more about Edward Hawk’s history, she came across his death notice in 1831. He was “survived by his wife Clementine; four children Phillip, James, Emily and Sarah.” ’
‘The same James as the constable?’
‘Yes,’ Stephenson-Wrigg said. ‘James was the only police officer who requested the commission. The others were sent there due to their spotty records. James must have seen the opportunity and brought the family legacy along with him.’
Quayle leant forwards. ‘Our suspicion is that that’s how the Covenant spread its reach to Victoria. James married and rose through the ranks, being appointed as assistant police commissioner of the City Police when Victoria separated from New South Wales in 1851. Another death notice in 1865 gave us our next link. James is survived by one daughter, Sarah, and a half-a-dozen or so grandchildren. But guess who she married?’
‘An Eldon,’ Will said.
‘Exactly. A man called Thomas Eldon, great-great-grandfather to —’
‘Michael Eldon.’
Will steadied his hands on the table. ‘Eldon?’
‘That’s right.’
The room was heavy now with smoke, his companions’ features becoming blurred behind floating wisps.
‘Of course, none of this is stringent enough as far as legal evidence goes,’ Quayle said.
‘Of course,’ Will replied.
Quayle nodded, lifting a folded piece of paper out of his cardigan. ‘Good. Because there’s one last thing.’
‘You kept something back from me?’ said Stephenson-Wrigg.
‘I only found it this afternoon. By pure chance,’ he said, sliding the folded page over to Will. ‘It’s a photo of Thomas Eldon, retired magistrate, at a gentlemen’s club, dated 1887.’
Will picked it up and opened it. A small, elderly man with white mutton-chops and a scowl sat in a leather wing chair surrounded by seven men. All wore coats with matching waistcoats, moustaches and grim expressions. The photo was captioned with ornate handwriting. 1887 Hawk’s Club, Melbourne – front row: T. Eldon, founder.
‘Hawk’s Club?’ Will asked.
‘Seems like a match,’ said Quayle.
‘Why the different name?’
‘Different era, perhaps? Gentlemen’s clubs were more in vogue by then,’ he replied.
Will handed the page to Stephenson-Wrigg.
She stared at it and tutted. ‘Well now, this is interesting.’
Quayle drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It would seem to confirm that your Covenant made it to Melbourne, Will. I found references to it right up until 1939.’
‘The Second World War.’
‘That’s right. Where it went after that is anyone’s guess.’
‘But Eldon is connected.’
‘Yes. Eldon is a connection. It could well be that Hawk’s Covenant is in fact alive and well today.’
Will took the photo back. He stared at the ancestors of the men who were now scheming against him.
‘There has to be something more,’ he said.
‘More?’ asked Quayle, too drunk to be affronted.
‘Some part of the picture we’re missing, a reason they’re manipulating the justice system.’
‘There’s money to be made from corruption,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg. ‘Money for favours.’
‘As far as I can tell, they seem to be protecting the interests of their members. Money is significant, though; money would be the glue that holds them together.’
Will looked more closely at the photo. Eight men, posed awkwardly. The walls behind them were hung with a lion’s head, a Javanese carving and framed kukri daggers – colonial artefacts, embodiments of the Mother Country’s power. In the corner of the photo, barely in focus, another picture frame held a frayed flag, one Will didn’t recognise. The Union Jack filled the flag’s upper-left quarter, much like it did on the Australian flag, but the remaining space was filled with horizontal red and white stripes.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, showing the photo to Stephenson-Wrigg while Quayle topped up his glass.
‘Ah, that’s the flag of the British East India Company.’
‘Thomas Eldon was a shareholder,’ said Quayle. ‘He owned several ships that fought for the British during the Second Opium War. And they then ran trade up the east coast of Australia and on to Kowloon.’
‘Opium war . . .’ said Will. ‘Wasn’t one of the outcomes the legalisation of the opium trade? That was the reason they fought?’
‘One of,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg. ‘But, yes, trade in opium was legalised around 1860, at the end of the war.’
Opium.
Will’s mind raced. Drugs were as good a reason as any to keep an organisation secret, and an even better reason to manipulate the workings of the justice system.
FORTY-THREE
It was late afternoon as Will walked up the gravel drive towards Walsh’s mansion. He’d spent the morning with his head spinning from Quayle and Stephenson-Wrigg’s revelations. He had re-read their report after dropping off a copy for De Marco at the newspaper’s security desk. He’d tried to let it sink in, to find its deeper meaning.
A hidden organisation.
Its implausibility was fading as he considered what would be required to frame Miller, to send ex-Special Forces to intimidate him. And through it all, one name came echoing out from the dark hum of history – Michael Eldon.
As unlikely as it seemed, El
don’s ancestor’s connection to opium kept coming back to Will. It was almost too simple an answer to the question that had been troubling him – the ‘why?’ of the Covenant’s manipulation of justice. Could it be as straightforward as drug trafficking? Twisting the system to lock away their competitors? The past was too obscure and intangible, like the shadows cast by the trees above him.
As the judge buzzed him in, Will tried to push his thoughts aside. He walked towards Walsh, who was now waiting for him on the veranda by the front door.
Walsh came down the steps with his arm outstretched as Will approached.
‘I hope everything is all right,’ he said, shaking Will’s hand.
‘It isn’t. We need to talk.’
‘Of course. Come in. Sandi is in the back.’
Walsh gestured towards the front door and the hallway that was glowing with warm yellow light. The smell of baking, of vanilla essence and cinnamon, mingled with the perfume from the spring blooms.
‘Actually,’ Will said, ‘I’d rather just you and me have this conversation.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s something we need to talk through without Saxon or your wife.’
‘Please,’ Walsh said, gesturing down the covered veranda and past the potted vines growing up the wrought-iron columns that supported it. Will walked alongside the judge as they turned the corner and were met by the two wagging Dobermans.
They walked down the rear steps that led off the veranda and into the backyard, past raised garden beds where strawberries, asparagus and broad beans grew, and towards the river.
‘I hope there aren’t any complications with Saxon’s case?’
‘None from the police.’
‘Oh?’
‘They’ve been in touch and are fine to meet Wednesday. I didn’t give them any details but they’re anticipating that we’ll be raising issues with their evidence.’
‘That this other boy was obsessed with Saxon?’ Walsh walked down the bank to the small wooden jetty that ran alongside the boathouse, where the water lapped in the wake of a wood-panelled motorboat. Walsh waved to its pilot.
‘I wouldn’t put it like that, but there is good cause to demonstrate that the suicide was just that, a suicide. Motivated by, I don’t know, depression, a troubled mind. We have the evidence to support the argument.’
‘I must say again how impressed I am with your work. And grateful. Our family owes you a great debt.’
Will held up his hand and tried to steady it as his nerves started to spike.
‘There’s something else,’ Will said.
Walsh’s smile dropped. The muscles framed by his widow’s peak twitched. He carried with him the practised air of a man who’d spent years looking into faces hardened by violence and shattered by grief. His days were occupied with exercising authority over senior police and seasoned lawyers alike. He was a powerful man, who wielded considerable influence in the field in which Will had chosen to make his living. So Will thought carefully about his words.
‘I have also come across . . . information . . . that would suggest that Saxon may have, in fact, manipulated Connor Fletcher into taking his own life.’
Walsh narrowed his brow. ‘You used the word “information”. Not “evidence”, I notice.’
‘There is a witness who could undermine the evidence we have.’
‘A witness? Have the police spoken to them?’
‘No.’
‘You’re talking about one of Saxon’s friends, aren’t you? Which one?’
‘I’m not prepared to disclose that.’
‘I told you specifically not to talk to the other families.’
‘Which is why I did. What did you expect? I didn’t want to be blindsided.’
Walsh crossed his arms. Dark silt rose and drifted on hidden currents in the water beneath the jetty.
‘Fine.’
‘Frankly, it’s just as well that I did. We need to know what might come up if this witness contacts the police.’
‘What are you trying to say here, Will? That this person is going to go to the police?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t know.’
‘Did you discourage them?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ The hue on Walsh’s face was incrementally turning a deep shade of red.
‘Because, Justice Walsh, that would not have been the correct legal advice to give,’ he said with a measured tone.
‘You’re acting as Saxon’s lawyer,’ Walsh said, raising his voice.
‘Exactly. I’m acting as his lawyer. I informed the witness of this and the reasons why I couldn’t advise them on their course of action.’
Walsh’s right arm shot out and pointed at Will’s face. His voice echoed around the river. ‘So now you’ve found your ethics, have you? You’re prepared to beat up suspects to help drug addicts, and to become a vigilante on behalf of paedophiles, but you choose not to help my son, a boy with his whole life ahead of him?’
‘That’s not what happened.’
‘That’s the way it’s reading among the judiciary. Oh yes, you’ve been noticed, and not for the right reasons. If it weren’t for your mother —’
‘I understand that you’ll do whatever it takes to defend your son. I understand this. But you can’t expect the same of me. Besides, this is not why I came.’
Walsh sniggered. ‘It’s not? Well, please tell me what is the reason.’
The wind had picked up, cooling the sweat that was gathering in Will’s palms. He breathed deeply before speaking.
‘Do you think Saxon could have manipulated Connor into killing himself?’
Walsh turned and raised a clenched hand, his knuckles whitening as his face tightened. He held Will in his gaze. The wind pulled at the collar of his polo shirt, flicking it against his chin. Finally, he exhaled and shook his head, turning and walking to the end of the pier.
After a time the judge spoke, his back still turned, the water rippling below him. ‘I’m sorry, Will. I shouldn’t have lost my temper at you just now.’ His voice had taken on a lighter tone.
‘So you do think he could have,’ Will said.
‘Perhaps. Yes. Saxon is . . . ah . . . troubled. I don’t quite understand how it happened. Andie was such a gentle child, and outgoing, very friendly to adults and other children. She found a lot of joy in the world when she was young.’
‘I remember.’
‘Somehow, with Saxon, the mix wasn’t right. I’m not saying it’s Sandi,’ he said, turning and jabbing his finger to make his point. ‘She’s a wonderful mother. No, if I were to look back on his childhood to search for the cause, it would have to fall squarely on my shoulders.’
‘You were never there.’
‘Yes, but I think it was worse than that. It’s about entitlement. For him it wasn’t about the money and the fact that he could have whatever he wanted. It was more deeply rooted than that. For Saxon it was about his intelligence, about the core of his ethical being. Perhaps I bring it home with me – I try not to – but it’s the way he regards other people, the way he sits in judgement over them. I’ve seen it. I tried to deny it at first but when you see your six-year-old son setting elaborate tasks for other children in the playground to prove that they are worthy of his attention, it’s horrifying. Six years old and he was making them eat sand for his affection.’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘You? Of course you can’t. In some ways you’re his antithesis. I’ve watched your career, spoken with your mother: you’re driven by some kind of moral vendetta, you can’t help but engage emotionally, too emotionally, with the world. Really, the law is the worst career for you. You should have been a social worker. You don’t have that emotional distance that lawyers require, that protects them from the worst side of it – those blows that hurt the spirit, not the body.’
Walsh walked over to the side of the boathouse and leant against it, slipping his hands into his pockets. Gone was the artifice, that judicial air.
Instead, Will now saw a broken parent, a client on the brink, a father consumed by the indifference of his son.
‘If this witness does go to the police, could you discredit them?’
These were the moments in which the job would test him. He could see where Walsh was leading him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Their memory is hazy, and they were drunk at the time. It wouldn’t be hard.’ Will sighed. ‘They told me a lot that they shouldn’t have. They don’t know any better. I’m sure there’s more I could find.’
‘Would you discredit them?’
And there it was, the grubby heart of it. Walsh would pervert the course of justice so that his son could continue to torment and manipulate his peers.
‘If it came to it, yes.’
Will turned and started back towards the car.
‘Will,’ Walsh called after him, ‘answer me truthfully. Do you think Saxon drove this boy to his death?’
‘No. I think he thought that his capacity to control other people was limited. I don’t think he realised how far he’d pushed Connor. In the video he tries to save him – he had no idea that he’d jump. But you need to know that these aren’t isolated incidents. Saxon needs help.’
‘We’ve tried before.’
‘Then try again.’
FORTY-FOUR
Will looked into the rear-view mirror as the cab wound its way through the Monday morning city traffic. In the back seat Eva sat between Eloise and Leah. All wore dresses in various hues of grey and black, their make-up understated, their expressions set in grim determination. Eva flicked her eyes to the mirror, returning Will’s gaze.
‘Thank you,’ he mouthed, as the cab turned down Queen Street.
Eva nodded to him. Again he felt the distance between them; he could see it in the diminished lustre in her eyes.
The narrow laneways below office blocks and skyscrapers would only see sun later in the day. Now, in the morning, they were corridors of shadow, broken at regular intervals by light from the wide intersecting streets. In this way Melbourne was marked with the stringent grid of a European city.
Will watched as the women each sat in the subdued silence of deep thought.
