The Hunt for Ned Kelly

by Sophie Masson

  Ellen says that soon she will be able to thank Mrs Pickett not just with free photographs and a spot of housework, but also more meat, and pastries too from the baker’s. I look forward to that day!

  September 27

  Lorna and I went for a long walk today, as I finished early at Ingram’s and the light was still good. We walked past the cemetery and onto the road that leads to Woolshed Valley and Sebastopol, which was really torn up by diggers in the gold rush and is now mostly inhabited by the Chinese.

  As we were walking along, Aaron Sherritt and another man came riding from the other direction. They stopped to speak to me—Aaron knew me from having seen me in Ingram’s—and he introduced the other man as his brother Jack. I remembered what Mr Turner had said about the pair of them, but of course I said nothing about it. Aaron made a great fuss of Lorna, who seemed happy enough when he tickled her ears, and then he asked me if I had read anything good recently, turning to Jack and saying, ‘Young Ross here is a devout bookworm, like someone else we know.’

  I thought that he must be referring to his friend Joe, or maybe Ned. ‘Oh yes, I have been reading just recently The Count of Monte Cristo,’ I said. ‘It is a wonderful story about a man who is done out of his true life by a wicked man who betrays him and lies about him and has him sent to gaol for something he never did.’

  Aaron laughed and said to Jack it sounded like the sort of book he might recommend to ‘you know who’.

  It sounded like he really, really wanted to be asked, so I did. ‘Who is that, Mr Sherritt?’ I said, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

  He laughed again and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Son, you are better off not knowing.’ He winked, knowing full well I knew what he meant and wanting me to pester him with questions. But I did not. He is friendly enough, but there is something in his eyes that troubles me and it is not remembering Mr Turner’s words only.

  They left us then, heading towards town, but Lorna and I walked on for another mile or so. We sat by the banks of the creek for a little while, and I spun pebbles into the water while Lorna ran around and barked. She enjoys getting out of town, I should try to do it more often. And maybe suggest to Ellen that we might go on a picnic one day, in the buggy.

  October 1

  Mr Church has kept his promise and brought several of his friends to Ellen’s studio. I did not go to Ingram’s today as I was kept busy helping my sister and then running errands for Mrs Pickett, to the baker no less, for buns to celebrate!

  On the way home I saw Detective Ward coming out of Allen’s store. He saw me staring at him and gave me a hard, searching look. It was as though he were imprinting my features on his memory and it made me feel nervous, though I could not think why, as I have done nothing wrong and could not hold any interest for him in any way. But maybe I was imagining things as usual and it is just his way. Policemen, especially detectives, have to look at the world differently from other folk—everything is to be observed and suspected.

  October 7

  This evening I must set down everything that happened, word for word, parrot-fashion as Pa said, because today has opened up an idea so odd and impossible and yet thrilling that I scarcely know what to think and must see it written down before I can make up my mind.

  Ellen and I went on our picnic. It was a fine day and we harnessed up Laddie and drove the buggy out of town, not the way I had gone walking the other day, but several miles along the road to Yackandandah. It was a fine day with a light breeze and we were both singing as we drove along with Lorna at our feet.

  We stopped in a nice place beside some big trees a fair way back from the road and laid out the picnic Mrs Pickett had made for us (we had asked her if she wanted to come, but she refused, saying she did not like Australian picnics, too many ants and flies). There were hard-boiled eggs and slabs of bread and cheese and a bottle of ginger beer and two buns (stale-ish, but spread with a little butter and jam, so not too bad). All this we set on an old blanket Mrs Pickett had lent us. We were hungry and so it seemed like a fine feast. We fed Lorna some of it too and after we finished we all sprawled on the blanket lazily watching the clouds scudding along the sky and listening to the birds calling. Suddenly Lorna growled warningly. Two men were approaching on foot from the bush beyond; one we did not know, but the second was Mr Thompson. They were both heavily armed.

  ‘Well, and so it’s Miss and Master Ross,’ he said as he came closer, ‘and Lorna.’ He reached towards the dog and she came willingly, wagging her tail. He turned to his companion and said, ‘I told you it was not them.’ He turned back to us. ‘Well, and what brings you out here?’

  ‘A picnic,’ said Ellen, ‘and a chance to get out of town.’

  ‘And for Lorna to sniff and run properly,’ I added.

  He nodded, and looked at us with a little smile. ‘My friend Mr Cook said he’d seen you in Beechworth. Taking photos of graves. Using honey.’

  It wasn’t a question, but there was something in his voice which made me say, hurriedly, without quite planning what I was saying, ‘Yes, but now you see we’ve got what we need and my sister has set up a photography studio in town, she wants to make our fortune, she is a talented photographer, Mr Thompson!’

  ‘Is that so?’ he said, smiling a little, but with a raised eyebrow. His companion, standing some distance away, watched us rather sullenly. Mr Thompson had not introduced him. He looked a good deal younger than Mr Thompson and was, I thought, most likely of an inferior rank.

  Ellen looked flustered. ‘I am not really so talented, Mr Thompson, my brother exaggerates.’

  ‘Do your sitters pay well, then, if you intend to make your fortune?’ he said calmly, his eyes on her.

  Ellen flushed and I said eagerly, ‘Oh, no sir, she does not charge high rates. I am sure she could take your picture, sir, if you like, and—’

  ‘My picture?’ For an instant he seemed genuinely startled. Then a faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Perhaps not, Master Ross. Thank you all the same.’

  ‘Honestly, Jamie!’ Ellen said crossly. ‘I am sorry, Mr Thompson. My brother means well but he is a little over-eager.’

  ‘No harm done,’ said Mr Thompson. ‘Now we must leave you, for we are busy.’

  I couldn’t help it. I said, ‘Oh, Mr Thompson, are you on the hunt right now?’

  He paused. ‘The hunt?’

  ‘For the Kellys, sir.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Yes. That’s so.’

  I remembered his remark earlier. ‘Oh, lord, you thought we were them! Oh, I am glad you did not shoot us by mistake, sir!’

  He said calmly, ‘Oh, I am glad too, Master Ross. You see, they were seen yesterday on this very road.’ He looked at Ellen. There was a humorous expression suddenly in his hazel eyes. ‘Maybe that’s where you might find fortune, Miss Ross. No-one wants a picture of a trap—of a policeman. But of the Kelly boys—now there’s something to make ‘em sit up.’ He laughed at our stunned faces. ‘Joke, my dears.’ And he tipped his hat to us and was gone with his stolid companion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellen, for butting in,’ I began when they had gone out of earshot. ‘I did not mean to make a spectacle of you and embarrass you in front of Mr Thompson.’

  But Ellen wasn’t listening. She was staring after the departing policemen, her mouth slightly open. I said, ‘Ellen, you make a nice trap for flies,’ but even that did not stir her.

  She said, slowly, ‘I can hardly believe it. How very, very strange. Uncanny. It’s as if …’

  ‘As if what?’ I said crossly.

  ‘As if he’d read my mind … Jamie, do you—do you remember how I said we’d make our fortune?’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘Haven’t you seen how everything to do with them—with Ned Kelly and his gang, I mean—sells like hotcakes? Sketches, songs, pamphlets, newspapers—people can’t get enough of it.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Just the other day I saw—’

  She interrupted me. ‘And postcards base
d on photographs. But all of them are old. Or retouched. Or fakes. No recent ones. Nothing of the gang together. Imagine what would be paid for that!’

  An uneasy feeling was building in the pit of my stomach. I stared at her. ‘You can’t be serious. You’re thinking of taking a photo of the Kelly gang?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve thought of it for quite a while.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t sure it would be possible. I didn’t want to stir you up. I first thought of it back in Melbourne,’ she said briskly. ‘That’s why I wanted to get up north. But when we got to Beechworth and I started making inquiries—well, it began to seem too hard. Fair enough to see their family connections around town, but to get close enough to the gang so they could trust you—would want you to take their photos—I had no idea how. When I met Mr Turner and learned what he wanted to do I thought maybe here was a way—and perhaps it will be. Though I’m not sure Mr Turner doesn’t talk bigger than he acts.’

  ‘But Ellen,’ I said blankly, thrilled but sort of scared, too, ‘Mr Turner’s a hardened reporter, he’s been everywhere. But you—well—even if you can get close to the Kellys, which I doubt—who’s to know how they’ll react? Maybe they’ll try to shoot you as a spy. Maybe the police will arrest you as a supporter. It’s mad!’

  ‘I know,’ she said, her eyes alight. ‘Mad and dangerous, but exciting.’ She grinned at me. ‘Come on, Jamie! Isn’t it?’

  I swallowed, my own heart beating excitedly. I said, trying to be stern, as though I was older and she younger, ‘Well, then I’m glad you didn’t say anything in front of Mr Thompson.’

  ‘But he suggested it,’ she said.

  ‘But Ellen! He was joking! And he’s a policeman! What if he was making a trap for you, to see if you were a supporter of the Kellys, and then arrested you?’

  ‘What would he arrest me for?’ she said, shrugging.

  ‘He might think we were out here helping them—that we planned to meet them—give them food.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said briskly. ‘Mr Thompson looks like an intelligent man. Why would he think we’re helping Ned Kelly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but you remember how he spoke about the Kellys the first time we met him?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I think he hates them.’

  ‘I don’t care what Mr Thompson feels,’ she flashed out. ‘And we have nothing to hide, we have done nothing wrong. Besides, I’m determined to do it, Jamie, so it’s no use trying to talk me out of it.’

  I sighed. That was true enough. Ellen would do what she wanted, whatever I or anyone else said.

  She grinned again and said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. But if Mr Turner comes back with interesting news, then I may well pursue this idea.’ She ruffled my hair, eyes shining. ‘Oh dear, you look like you’ve seen a ghost, Jamie! Cheer up!’

  How could I explain to her that at that moment I had seen Pa looking at me through her eyes? Pa’s expression, identical, when he knew something was reckless but he was going to do it anyway. The sort of thing that had made life with him unsteady but exciting as anything. The life I missed so much. Speaking through a lump in my throat, I said, ‘If you do it—I mean, if by some chance you take the photo—you’re not allowed to do it on your own. You must take me with you. You must promise.’

  ‘But I thought you didn’t want—’ She bit her lip and shrugged. ‘I don’t think I will ever understand you, little brother—but very well. I promise.’

  ‘And you will keep your idea to us only, and Mr Turner if you have to?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Cross your heart, hope to die?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, impatiently performing the action.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Then I will try to help you all I can,’ I said, ‘for I hear many things at Mr Ingram’s and they may be of use in our quest.’

  Ellen looked at me and shook her head. Then she burst out laughing. ‘What a mad pair we make, eh, Jamie? Aunt Julia would have a fit if she knew. But I think Pa might have approved, don’t you?’

  I nodded. Pa took all life as an adventure. If it didn’t work out in the end—why, at least you tried, and did not live like a rat in a hole fearing the sun. Or that is what he said.

  I look back at what I have written now and think about how strange it is that Mr Thompson, who is on the Kelly hunt, should have put us on a hunting-path of our own through a chance joking remark. But I hope he does not get the idea he has done so, for I would not like to make an enemy of him. He is a puzzling sort of man who looks like he could swing from light to dark in the time it takes to write it.

  October 10

  So far no result. It has been a dull few days, with only a few snippets in the paper about the gang, and that all rumour. And Mr Turner is still not back from Melbourne. But this afternoon Detective Ward came into Ingram’s to buy a paper and I served him. He looked at me searchingly again and asked me my name. Then he asked where I came from, and about my family. I was a little frightened by all these questions, but Mr Ingram said that was just his way, asking questions was second nature to him, and anyway, what did I have to hide? But I felt as though the detective could look into my eyes and see our secret plan exposed there, and it made my stomach churn.

  When I told Ellen she said I was being silly, imagining things as usual. Which is probably true, but it doesn’t really help.

  October 12

  There is a phrenologist arrived in town today, he claims to be able to tell people’s characters from the bumps on their heads. He is also advertising that he can make a character study of ‘the infamous Ned Kelly’ just by looking at a photograph of him. And he says it proves he is a thorough villain with the blackest of hearts. Ellen says his show might be worth a laugh. I do not know if we will go though.

  Tonight I was re-reading Lorna Doone and I came across this passage on Tom Faggus, the highwayman who the hero John Ridd works for. I will copy some of it here, for it strikes me strongly that it speaks very closely to the troubled situation now.

  I know not whether, upon the whole, we were rather proud of him as a member of our family, or inclined to be ashamed of him. And indeed I think that the sway of the balance hung upon the company we were in. For instance, with the boys at Brendon – for there is no village at Oare – I was exceedingly proud to talk of him, and would freely brag of my Cousin Tom. But with the rich parsons of the neighbourhood, or the justices (who came round now and then, and were glad to ride up to a warm farm-house), or even the well-to-do tradesmen of Porlock – in a word, any settled power, which was afraid of losing things – with all of these we were very shy of claiming our kinship to that great outlaw.

  He goes on to say:

  Not that I would find excuse for Tom’s downright dishonesty, which was beyond doubt a disgrace to him, and no credit to his kinsfolk; only that it came about without his meaning any harm, or seeing how he took to wrong; yet gradually increasing it … Much cause he had to be harsh with the world; and yet all acknowledged him very pleasant, when a man gave up his money.

  For Tom Faggus had suffered greatly and been most unjustly oppressed by the law and the rich and powerful, and took his revenge thus on the world. I think it is most strangely like what Mr Turner reported Ned Kelly told the editor at Jerilderie. Perhaps he feels like Tom Faggus, who, because the world was wolf to him, became wolf to the world.

  October 14

  Ellen had a very interesting interview with Emma Crawford today. I had wanted to come with her, but I was working all day and had to be satisfied with her report.

  She went to the Crawfords’ on pretext of asking if they would like to be included in her book of photographs. She’d hoped to see Kate Kelly, but learned soon enough that Ned’s sister had gone home.

  Emma said that the Kelly girls have a hard time of it, with two of their brothers outlawed, another, Jim, in prison, and their mother and Maggie’s husband in pri
son too. They have to care for several little children, their mother’s and their own. And though their cousins and uncles and aunts helped, they are often at their wits’ end.

  ‘And having to deal with the constant raids of the police who turn the place upside down, breaking eggs and spilling flour and throwing furniture about and making threats which might be empty but might not,’ said Emma, indignantly. ‘It is not as though the girls are guilty of any crime, bar being of Ned’s and Dan’s blood and not ready to turn their backs on their own brothers. It is a shame, and I hope you agree it is no way for the police to behave. The boys must be made accountable for what they have done, but why punish poor Kate, or Maggie, or any of them?’

  Ellen said that it was a shame indeed, it must be so grim to live in this hard-pressed way, they sounded as though they needed something to lift up their spirits and she’d just this minute thought of the very thing. What if Emma arranged for Ellen and her assistant (that’s me!) to visit the girls at their home and take photographs of them? For a special rate, she could do those cheap cartes de visite (visiting-card photos) which you can take two or more to a plate so you get several prints for the price of one. Perfect for sending away to absent friends and family.

  Emma is a loyal friend, Ellen said, but not a suspicious one, for she did not appear to think it strange that someone who had come to photograph her family was suddenly offering to make cartes de visite for perfect strangers quite out of the blue. But Emma thought it an excellent idea and declared she would write to Kate by the first post to suggest it to her. So we are to wait now for Kate’s reply. I wonder what she will say?

  October 16

  No word yet from Kate. But Mr Turner is back. Ellen has told him of our plans and he seems very keen. If we go to Greta and see the Kelly girls, he said, he will come with us, not only on his own account, but to protect us. We need protection, he said. We don’t know the world like he does (I thought Ellen looked rather annoyed at this but she said nothing).