by Robin Adair
‘Mendoza was a godsend. He was desperate, facing gaol, even the noose. We faked his suicide, then he was smuggled into Longwood House quite easily; guards check people going out, not in. Louis Marchand, a loyal servant of the Emperor, became part of the conspiracy.
‘No one stopped our ship; the deceit must have lasted long enough. As you say, the islanders doubtless closed ranks for the sake of their own necks. But perhaps Mendoza became a nuisance. He could hardly resurrect his own identity; maybe he simply made increasingly onerous demands.
‘Of course, I’ve heard the stories that “Napoleon” was poisoned. So, ironically, it seems that someone there may have gone back to the original scheme. What a strange, circular story.’
The Patterer frowned. ‘And so you became a trickster, a thief … perhaps. But why become a killer?’
‘Needs must,’ shrugged Grenville. ‘Or so I thought at the time. Each time. You deduced – or perhaps only guessed – why I killed Creighton. I thought he had the gold chart. I was angry – for God’s sake, I had even lost the stolen money, including most of those damned holey dollars and dumps. Someone dug it all up in Dingle’s house. And now I have the shame of having lost the General’s precious sachet!’
‘What of the woman accomplice you spoke of?’ said Dunne. ‘I own that for a while I thought that might be Mrs Abell.’
Grenville snorted. ‘Oh, there was no woman – just a red herring to add intrigue to my plot. Though, I wonder if she would have helped me?’ He glanced at Betsy, who coloured.
Dunne felt a prickle of unease. Why had the killer capitulated so readily? For a moment he imagined that, as Grenville occupied them, a band of convicts, French-led or not, was rising to free their leader and ravage the colony. Then the truth struck home: he was buying time for his master, time and freedom.
As if reading his adversary’s thoughts, Grenville said quietly, ‘I’ve given much of my life to him, why should I not give my death?’ Then he was brisk and businesslike again. ‘The molly at the theatre? When the Emperor told me that the fat old fool had recognised him, he had to go. And he went much as you deduced. Bravo!
‘The scribbler in the Cat and Fiddle? That was me with young O’Bannion there. Poor Con, he told me almost everything you were up to. His anger and hatred overrode everything else. He was also my link to the French, even those on the ship.
‘But I wouldn’t have bothered to harm Dawks for playing silly buggers with you about the plate and the sovereigns left in the vault. You know that, don’t you?’ The Patterer nodded and Captain Rossi, who caught the nuanced byplay, frowned.
‘Then, he sealed his own fate,’ continued the killer. ‘Just after you left the bar, he sobered up enough to overhear Con and me talking about that cursed gold map. Now he had heard not only about the keystone of the plot – but he had seen me. Straightaway we gulled him into going with us to the church – it was private and empty at that time. There I smashed his head in with the lectern bird. It was heavy and handy. We then tangled him in the bell rope, to muddy the waters.’
Dunne recalled Alexander Harris’s theory that the weapon had been a potent image of French power and fury. ‘Did you know that the church bird was a captured French eagle?’
‘No,’ Grenville laughed mirthlessly, ‘or I would have liberated it – damn, another treasure I’ve let slip!’
‘Why kill Bagley, the “Cauliflower”?’
‘I’d seen your newspaper notice and, as usual, Cornelius was there when you met and he reported to me – including the remark that Bagley was a glutton for fruit. And, no, my little spy didn’t hear the provenance of the quote – so my incriminating slip here was all my own work. I knew the soldier would make the connection one day.’
‘But he never did. I did.’
Grenville Newton shrugged. ‘I simply killed the wrong man. Sorry – it should have been you.’
Dr Thomas Owens was more clinical in his questioning. ‘Where in heaven’s name did you get that remarkable poison?’
‘Oh, from Captain Macarthur – not that he knew. Elizabeth Farm has grown the fruit in its conservatory for years. Apothecaries buy them to extract the crystals. I simply went one day as a druggist and bought half-a-dozen. Oh, and on the trip I killed two birds with one stone.’ He turned to the Patterer and laughed at the confusion he saw there. ‘I also left at the farm, discreetly, the “pipe” that so inflamed “Jack Bodice” against you!’
Captain Rossi had nursed a question, like an aching, jagged tooth. Now he demanded relief. ‘What did the scoundrel mean a moment ago, that the silver plate and the sovereigns were just a game of “silly buggers”?’
‘Exactly that,’ replied Dunne cheerfully. ‘Neither fabled treasure existed.’
Chapter Fifty-four
Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.
– Thomas Gray, Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes (1748)
‘The devil, you say!’ Governor Darling’s flinty gaze pierced the Patterer and his strident protest cut through the sudden babble: ‘There are no gold coins, no silver plate – those very things you’ve put great store by?’
Dunne made a soothing sound. ‘Exactly. Let me explain. If ever a word would best describe the events in this whole case, it is “misdirection”. That and its ramifications have followed me all the way. Right from the start.
‘First, I saw a death that was really only sleight of hand…’ He stopped; the late Captain Fiddle’s stage-managed execution of his faithful private soldier was not to the point really, not to be mentioned. He looked down at Munito to cover his confusion and saw the way out. ‘Even at the theatre, a dog’s tricks bewildered me. Also, we’ve seen diversions by, and about, some of the murder victims.
‘The story of the plate goes back, as always, to Bonaparte. The silver had been the General’s and he sold it not just through, but to, Mr William Balcombe, whose money problems caused him to sell it off gradually, both in England and here.’
The Treasurer did not disagree.
‘Recently I noticed the family was in obviously straitened circumstances. If the plate was still in his control, why, he could sell or borrow against it. But no, the last sale had already been made and the proceeds spent. The chest was bare, left there for appearances’ sake.
‘That’s what Dawks meant by writing in The Gazette that the robbers were “cunning enough to anticipate the difficulty in disposing of this description of property”. Indeed, who’d want an empty box?’
Captain Rossi broke in. ‘How did the hack know? Nobody has made a fuss about such notorious items being for sale.’
‘Buyers may not know. An intimate named Las Cases has said that a stipulation on any memorabilia sold was that the General’s insignia be removed. Even so, you’re left with intrinsically valuable silver. I believe Dawks followed the trail of the sales from discreet advertisements. Perhaps he knew which wealthy households – Piper, Wentworth, Sir John Jamison, Macarthur? – were now entertaining on regal silverware. The chest has a new use?’
Mr McVitie nodded.
‘Now,’ continued the Patterer, ‘though there was no plate to steal, certainly there was the tangible casket of coins, which was left unmolested. Obadiah Dawks, I’m sure, could see why they survived – was it because the robbers were fearful of the sovereigns’ owner? You see, the journalist knew who that was; I suspect the man had earlier even boasted of the hoard’s existence. Dawks came to fear that his knowledge could be dangerous, so he drunkenly laid his “monks” and “friars” clues. Deciphered, they told me only who owned the coins.
‘I discovered the whole truth by accident; when Mr Macarthur and Mr Marsden terrorised me in the bank vault. I wasn’t completely cowed and I had the presence of mind to explore my prison, the very vault that had been ransacked. The darkened room was empty, save for a small chest filled with coins. The drain was still partly
open, but no one seemed to fear for the fate of 2000 sovereigns? Unthinkable! I took one from the top layer and another from below. My banker friend, Mr Potts, examined my sovereigns. This is one.’
He tossed a glittering new coin onto the table. ‘It looks good. So, I’m certain, do its fellows, those on the top layer, at least. But they’re not real and the coins below them are just lead slugs. The “gold” ones are pinchbeck.’ Most of his listeners knew he was speaking of an alloy of zinc and copper that closely resembled the true mineral of that name. It had also came to mean anything cheap, of low quality or false. For others, he explained the process.
Miss Hathaway looked puzzled. ‘We may know it as German or Dutch gold?’
He nodded. ‘But we take the name from Christopher Pinchbeck, a London jeweller, in Fleet Street, early last century.’
‘What the deuce was going on?’ The Governor was testy.
‘More misdirection, sir,’ replied Dunne. ‘The idea was for a depositor to appear to have a chest full of sovereigns to back any claim on paper. Governor Macquarie in 1813 could solve the silver problem with the holey dollar and its dump, but the dearth of gold coins has not been overcome. This shortage of large-denomination specie is a continual annoyance for businessmen, no matter how rich they are on paper and in property.’
The Patterer paused and Captain Rossi jumped in. ‘Who, for heaven’s sake, deposited them?’
‘Someone who simply wanted to have them to be quickly looked at – certainly not handled – by anyone who would be swayed by such proof of liquidity. To make the golden casket more convincing – to lend cachet to the cache? – I suspect our man even told Dawks of the deposit, hoping he would write a laudatory squib reinforcing the claim to gilded abundance. When the coins were left in the robbery, I believe Dawks guessed the truth.
‘Of course, one thief would never have been fooled. Sudden Solomon Blackstone was, remember, a smith and a coiner. He did not think for a moment that the coins shown to him in the drain were gold, or even shiny new small coppers. He knew he was looking at fakes, so they were left to languish, unloved. As they are, even now.’ He looked at Mr McVitie, who nodded.
‘Anyway, Blackstone had another good reason for knowing to pass on plundering the counterfeit coins – he had helped make them.’
‘Who for?’ demanded Thomas Owens. ‘And won’t the man who had the pinchbeck money made face death, alongside the coiners?’
Dunne sought to dispel these dark thoughts. ‘Perhaps it’s sharp practice, but not as criminal as you may think. They were never passed, or, to use the legal term, “uttered”. Indeed, someone ordered them and Sudden Solomon cast them. And the design is so good it is obviously the work of a most professional artist. But look closely and you will see that the Latin inscription has the word “Canis” instead of “Deum”. So, it reads, “I Have Made Dog My Helper”. Also, the face on the coin is not a likeness of George IV or any earlier British ruler, a certain prerequisite for treason, the key crime in coining.’ He tossed the shimmering disc, face up, to Ralph Darling.
‘Good Lord!’ cried the Governor. ‘It’s Sam Terry!’
The surprisingly literate moneylender, who now showed he also had a sense of humour, again just shrugged. And, the Patterer noted (privately), the Latin-literate, dog-loving friar looked down happily at Munito as the usually gloomy, frustrated artist, Mr Thomas Tyrwhitt Balcombe, his talent on display and recognised at last, smiled contentedly.
‘Where’s that blasted goldmine map, then?’ demanded Sam Terry, again (as ever) the businessman with an eye to the main chance.
‘Oh, never fear,’ said Dunne. ‘We’ve just searched Mr Newton’s rooms to no avail, but we may have it when, and if, I find his master, the General.’
‘At least you will never capture him,’ snarled Grenville. ‘And, if you want a taste of gold, here – take this…’ He pulled from a coat pocket a curved, bejewelled dagger scabbard, and drew out its wicked blade, chased with gold. ‘The Emperor took it from the Knights Hospitallers in Malta, in ’98,’ he spat out. ‘With our compliments!’ He threw himself across the table and slashed at the Patterer’s throat.
He had only one chance. Munito liked bright things: silver false noses were fine, shiny daggers just as good. He lunged for the scabbard on the table, momentarily distracting the attacker.
In the time-slip that froze the tableau, Miss Susannah Hathaway, daughter of a brave New World and niece of a pirate, picked up a full wine bottle and crashed it onto the looming, black-mouthed skull.
Dr Owens, later, would talk learnedly about fractures, pulverised bone forced into brain anterior hemispheres, haemorrhage, destroyed dura mater … Whatever, Grenville Newton died instantly.
As the doctor now oversaw the removal of the latest body to the hospital – God, thought the Patterer, what a depressing job for a sick man – the Balcombes, cleared of any complicity and not especially shattered (‘He was always a strange boy,’ Mrs Balcombe offered calmly), left with much of the company.
‘So, we’ve found one “Napoleon”,’ said Rossi, ‘a mad young man. But is there indeed another one?’
‘Perhaps we’ll never really know,’ replied Dunne, throwing a quick glance at Thomas Owens. ‘The trail may be cold. He could be dead, after all. And, actually, he played no direct part in robbery and murder. Also, the revolt never went very far.
‘But, of course, we’ve lost, as well as the plot’ – he smiled at the felicitous pun – ‘the treasure map, at least for the time being. Maybe gold in Australia is destined to stay where God hid it.’
He paused for a new thought. ‘It could all be worse.’
‘How, in the devil’s name,’ challenged Ralph Darling, ‘could it be “worse”?’
‘Well,’ said the Patterer reasonably, ‘Miss Hathaway brained him with a Vin Constance from the Cape. Quite a passable quaffing wine, but it was too young, only a ’27.
‘It could have been this she used.’ He reverently raised a bottle of brandy and began pouring nobblers for those remaining, even Samuel Marsden.
‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed contentedly. ‘If I’m not mistaken, an ’04 – Napoleon, of course!’
Success toasted, the Governor took Dunne aside. ‘I believe that history has capacity for only one “reborn” Bonaparte,’ he said. ‘And this mad young imitator will gradually fade into obscurity. London would not want the world to know of any more complications.
‘So,’ and Darling stared intently, ‘I rely on you to put it – and him – to rest. Understood?’
Oh, yes, decided the Patterer. Perfectly. The biggest story I would ever hawk is, as Obadiah Dawks would say, on the spike!
Chapter Fifty-five
I [Death] was astonished to see him in Baghdad,
for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
– W. Somerset Maugham, Sheppey (1933)
It feels like déjà vu all over again, the Patterer muttered to himself, thinking of the fractured phrase once coined by poor Brian O’Bannion.
This reflection was sparked by the fact that, yet again, he had entered the portals of the Rum Hospital to discuss weighty matters of death with Dr Thomas Owens.
‘Where did you find him?’ he asked.
‘Just there, outside the dissecting room,’ replied Owens. He indicated the corridor, with its familiar fauna. Dunne noted the kangaroo, the wombat, the Van Diemen’s Land wolf and the strange water mole, as some called the platypus. Only the stuffed laughing jackass seemed unbowed by death.
‘He is drifting in and out of delirium,’ continued the doctor. ‘He was trying to pat the kangaroo, poor old bugger. A last goodbye?’
‘How far gone is he?’
Owens shook his head. ‘Failing fast,’ he said. ‘But not fast enough to beat the pain. I’m amazed he’s battled on for this long. His father died at thirty-five and a sister ailed similarly.’
The Patterer grimaced then turned and entered the ward nearby, which was clean and surprisingly well
lit. He nodded to the only patient there, an aged man with a drawn face, his arms and legs all skin and bone. He lay on a straw-filled paillasse on an iron frame. The blanket was thrown off, as if he could not bear its weight. A small table stood beside the bed. It bore only a glass of water.
‘Ah,’ whispered the man after a moment. ‘The Running Patterer … I’ve watched you and often wondered if it would be you.’
‘Me? To do what?’
‘Why, to end my deceit, of course!’
‘I’m not an agent of that any more. Who can run the race with Death?’
‘Very good. Is it original?’
Dunne smiled. ‘Alas, no. Our James Boswell beat me to it.’
‘So, you are an educated man. I’m not really. I knew only war. It was enough. Was it not Caligula who said, “Oderint, dum metuant”? – “Let them hate, as long as they fear”?’
‘Yes. Actually, the Roman poet Accius wrote it.’ Dunne could not help thinking of the ‘accounts’ book in Sam Terry’s attic.
The patient frowned. ‘Well, I told you I was not an educated man. Anyway, there is no need for people to fear me now. So, what do you want of me? Revenge? I didn’t kill anyone – not this time, not here. And the uprising was an old man’s mad dream.’
‘I know that,’ said the Patterer. ‘But you didn’t stop that young man becoming the agent of the you of old. But revenge now? No. More wise words, this time from Francis Bacon: “A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green”.’
‘You have taken my assistant?’ the patient asked with an effort. He sighed as Dunne nodded. ‘He won’t betray me, you know,’ came a proud whisper. The Patterer nodded again, but would not twist the knife and tell the old man why silence was assured.
