by Darry Fraser
‘And what work is it you hope to get if you go to Renmark?’
Ard looked up. ‘Not Renmark, I’m not going there. I reckon the irrigation scheme there will fail, and that’s already the talk. The Chaffeys don’t know the land or the weather. The drought will kill it. You only have to check levels on the river in some places now.’ He looked past the orchard, into a place he couldn’t really see. ‘I came upstream not long ago, lucky to be on board a boat whose captain knows what he’s doing. I don’t want Renmark. I’m thinking I’d like Echuca. The place is crying out for produce. Only got one orchard there.’
James nodded and remained silent. He, too, scuffed the dirt at his feet. ‘Echuca. Big plans,’ he finally said.
‘If we sell here. Any which way, long term I don’t think I’ll stay.’ Ard’s gaze swept past the tired trees, the dried weeds at their bases, the new leaves of spring cracked and brown at the tips. ‘I do have to find Miss Linley. But first I’d like to set myself up and make something of it. Somewhere.’
James nodded again, and still looked at his feet. ‘She’s important to you.’
‘James, I’m grateful to you for pulling me out of that burning house. I was calling on Miss Linley for a reason but now she’s gone. You know where she’s gone.’
James looked at Ard. ‘I know they are safe. I just don’t know who they are safe from. I will get a message to Linley, if that helps you.’
Ard’s shoulders dropped again. ‘I will find her.’
‘Write her a letter for me to take.’
Ard shook his head. ‘’Tis too big for words on paper.’
James slapped a hand on Ard’s shoulder. ‘Then you must be eloquent. Write a good letter. Write a brave letter, tell her how you feel. Then show her.’
Show her.
Horse’s hooves sounded on the track and both men turned to see a rider bearing down on them and leading a spare horse.
‘Yon, Ard!’
Sam Taylor galloped down the home track, bellowing on the back of a roan. He was trying to keep abreast of Pie, who was saddle-less, stretching the reins in Sam’s hands, and with his eyes on the prize.
‘Whoa!’ Ard and James jumped out of the way as Sam reined in.
He slid from the saddle. ‘I was hoping to beat you back here. Beg pardon for intruding.’ He flashed a grin at James Anderson and flung out his hand. ‘Samuel Taylor. Not an esquire.’
James’ lips twitched. ‘James Anderson, same.’
Sam turned to Ard who had his hand on Pie, settling the horse with crooning words. ‘Heard you were a guest of the coppers.’
‘The quacks, with only a visit from the coppers.’
Sam shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Nothing to do with the grog then?’ He chanced a glance at James, who raised an eyebrow.
Ard shook his head. ‘Least of my worries. Went visiting Miss Linley and got myself in the way of an iron bar or something.’
‘Ballocks to that.’ Sam grabbed Ard by the shoulder and turned him this way and that. ‘But she didn’t do much of a job—you still look all right.’
James laughed aloud.
Ard snorted and threw off Sam’s hand. ‘A rotten headache, a few bruises, but not from Miss Linley. Mr Anderson here helped me out. Not before Miss Linley’s house was torched, though.’
Sam nodded. ‘I heard of the fire. What have you got yourself into, O’Rourke?’
‘Not me.’
Sam held his hands up. ‘Right. Well, naught to be said but that I’ve brought vittles and a—’ He looked at Anderson.
‘A drink?’ James supplied. ‘Good. We’ve only got channel water here, apparently.’
Sam’s guard dropped. ‘A drink. That’s it. Ard, me man, and Mr Anderson, let’s get out of the heat and flies and get into yonder hut so I can hear you tell the tale.’ He rummaged around in the bulging saddlebags and hauled out a couple of cumbersome parcels. He nodded towards the hut. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Anderson. After you.’
Inside, they sat on Ard’s upturned fruit boxes at Eleanor’s red gum table. The door remained open and the window boards were let swing as the breeze, if any, took them.
Sam glanced from Ard to James. ‘So, go on. Tell.’
Ard’s fingers drummed the table. ‘Coppers want a word with you, Sam.’
‘What?’
‘Verifying Ard’s activities night before last,’ James qualified.
‘We were here, all night. Drunk as monkeys. Or I was.’ Sam looked at Ard. ‘You didn’t sneak off anywhere, did you?’
Ard grunted. ‘Four mile from the town in the dead of night, on foot and no bloody moon. I don’t think so.’
‘Pie was outside. You coulda taken him.’
Ard threw his hands in the air. ‘You believe I went into town?’
‘No, no. You just wouldn’a been on foot if you did go.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Sam,’ James intervened, ‘if the police come for you about Ard’s whereabouts, you’ll vouch for him?’
‘’Course.’ Sam unwrapped a parcel on the upended boxes. ‘Ma’s pickled pork, some apricot jam and a slab of bread.’ He scratched his thatch of hair, shoved it back behind his ears and unwrapped the packet. ‘Board. Knife,’ he ordered, and Ard brought both from the hearth shelf. ‘You said you needed a horse and I said Pa would lend you Pie. Well, here he is.’
Ard blew out a breath and glanced at James, but addressed his friend. ‘Thanks. I’ll look after him.’
‘You will or you’ll die me da’s slave, heavin’ dung for a living.’ Sam turned his dark gaze to James. ‘And you, James, mate, what’s in this for you?’
James returned Ard’s glance. ‘A stout friend you have, Ard.’
‘Stout between the ears.’
James sat back on his seat and folded his arms. ‘I have ladies to look after. I have to protect their interests, which pan across the personal and the financial. And I must deliver a letter to one of them that Ard will write.’
Sam tore off a chunk of bread and carved a thick slice of pickled pork. He used the knife to cut through the wax seal on the pot of jam, dipping his finger to wipe a smear on the bread. ‘That so, Ard? You best tell me all.’
‘Tell you nothing, except that I’m thinking of leaving.’ Ard swiped the knife and dipped his own chunk of bread in the jam.
‘In that case, I’ll have to come with you.’ Sam smirked at James, saluted him with a chunk of bread and jam and shoved the lot into his mouth.
‘You don’t.’
‘I do.’ Sam munched down in gulps. ‘Coppers did come around home last night.’
Ard gave a start. ‘And?’
‘Seems Griffin isn’t entirely sure of your story.’
Ard scowled. ‘I had nothing to do with the fire.’
Sam lifted his chin. ‘So you said.’
‘You’re a daft bugger.’ Ard stared at Sam.
‘I say we leave and let the copper work it out for himself.’ Sam licked the jam off his fingers.
‘Why would you want to leave? You had nothing to do with it.’
‘The adventure. We’ll join a mob of bushrangers. More money in that than the jobs we got.’ Sam shoved in another mouthful of bread and jam.
‘Ballocks,’ Ard said.
James laughed at that and Sam grinned.
Ard glanced at James. ‘My friend Sam here makes it sound as if he’s got nothing between his ears, and no money in his pockets. He works with his father, who builds houses, fences and the like. He also works with a local smithy. Sam’d just rather have the life of an adventurer. Or a no-hoper.’ He looked at Sam. ‘If I go anywhere, I’ll go to Echuca. It’s not far away, but a good place to start again.’
James dropped his chin and frowned.
Sam looked from one to the other. ‘Echuca. Heard it’s a nice place, lots of pubs. When do we leave?’
James wheeled the carriage around and headed down Ard’s track to the gate. He pulled onto the road and drove back to Bendigo. He’d be bac
k well before dusk.
So, Ard thought he’d go to Echuca. No mention he knew Linley was there. No mention of a baby either. Perhaps he didn’t know Linley had a baby with her.
He wondered what Ard was so keen on seeing Linley about. Sam had turned up at the wrong time, though he certainly provided light relief.
And the Ard and Linley relationship bemused him. CeeCee had never mentioned there was any connection between Linley and a young man, so he was caught unawares.
He’d telegram CeeCee but leave telling her about the fire until he arrived.
Right now, he needed to attend to the second thing on his list before he did anything else.
Nineteen
Bendigo
No moon. Low light by the stars.
Good. And bad. How was a body to see where he was goin’ if he couldn’t see where he was goin’?
Mr Campbell’s offices. In darkness. Front door locked, of course. No street lights left on anywhere so no chance of anyone seeing him, either. Gareth Wilkin flattened himself against the door, then turned and twisted the door knob one more time. No give. He shouldered the thing as a test, then drew back and charged it—
Breath whumped out of him. Shuddering reverberation …
He got nothing but a banged-up shoulder and slowly slid down the door, his eyeballs rattling. He couldn’t really give it a good charge, as his foot dragged. He couldn’t see a thing when he looked around, and believed he was alone in the street. He stood up, drew back and charged again, full tilt. This time his foot kept up.
The door splintered open with a massive craaack. He followed it inside at the speed of light, skidding in the hallway, and went down on his face. Blustering, he fumbled to his knees and scrambled towards the door, slamming it closed from where he knelt.
He pressed his forehead to the doorknob and dragged in agonised breaths.
Jesus Mary Joseph Christ on the cross.
He waited a moment. No noise. No alarmed voices.
He was in.
He spun around on his hands and knees, facing, he hoped, where he knew Campbell’s office to be. Second on the right if memory served correctly.
His sight adjusted to the darkness, and with little to guide him but his recollection, he found the door knob. No lock this time. He shoved it open, caught it before it hit the wall and closed it softly behind him.
Musty. Old wood. Old papers. Some sort of lemon scent.
There was the bloody chair he’d dangled from the other day like a damn dwarf on an elephant. Gareth patted down his pockets, and located the note he’d written earlier. That should save the coppers going any further than the smart young buck who thought he was a brick wall.
Now. The desk. Find files, papers… or something. Something with the bitch’s name on it. Something which tells me where the brat got taken …
Gawd, this could take all night without a light.
He crawled to a window and peered out. Down on the street he saw no movement. Hard to tell but …
He’d risk it.
He took a matchbook from his pocket and struck one from the fold. A quick flicker of light, enough to show him the desk top. Carefully guarding the flame, he swept the folders atop the desk down to the floor. Cross-legged, holding the flickering match steady, he scanned what he had.
Nothing.
The match went out. He struck another, sifted past what he’d already discarded. Still nothing.
No damn file.
He sat up and banged his head on the edge of the desk. Fuuuck! Heat surged in his chest and he beat down the urge to burst out and break something, tear it apart with his bare hands …
He rubbed his head instead, the dull throb breaking the mood. Christ almighty that hurt.
The little flicker of light died. He scrabbled out from under the desk. Eyesight adjusted, he made out another small table on which sat piles of folders.
Aha!
He swiped them down to the floor and struck another match, crawled back under the desk, keen to keep the light hidden.
And there it was. Mary Bonner. Not Mrs Gareth Wilkin. Oh, no. Ungrateful bitch had kept up her notion that she belonged only to herself.
He pored over it. Could hardly decipher the legal jargon, but when it came to the part about her inheritance going to the guardian of her baby for its upbringing, he knew he had his hands on gold.
There were letters in the file from Mary to the solicitor… all that ballocks about me ‘mistreating’ her—she were me wife, weren’t she? ’Sides, if she hadn’t whinged all the bloody time I wouldn’a had to thrash her … He would destroy those as soon as he was somewhere hidden and safe. And if the letters disappeared nothing could harm his claim. His marriage licence made his claim legitimate. He had that. Somewhere.
If the letters disappeared …
Hah! Outwitted her.
He took the folder and stuffed the lot down his shirt front. Too late he saw the glow of light fill the room.
‘Who’s there?’
A lantern’s shimmer shielded its bearer, but the voice was male and gruff. Campbell? He lived here? Jesus!
Gareth’s eyes darted to the door he’d come through, the one now behind him. There was only one chance, one slim opportunity for him to get out with the folder …
What would it mean to kill a solicitor?
No … no. Don’t kill him. Just get the hell out.
Bursting up from the floor, he shoved the man out of his way, and lurched for the door. Papers sprang from the folder. He cursed, snatched them back to him, then charged for the door, scrunching the files to his chest. Something hit him on the back of the head and for a moment, a star burst over his eyes. Something burned, singed, and a pungent odour swept past him. Heat on his neck, his collar. Stink. Burning …
Lor’ lummy, shit, I’m on fire!
He tumbled forward, out the door, scrambled down the hallway, out through the front door and onto the street. Crabbing his way around the corner, puffing wildly, clasping the files with one hand, he beat himself up and down with the other hand. He dropped the files, stamped his foot on them and wrenched out of his waistcoat, beating himself with it to put out the embers latched in his clothing.
A flapping buffoon!
What’s that smell? His scalp was hot, his eyes watered …
Then he heard the voice bellowing for help. Saw the faint glow reach him from around the corner. Heard glass popping and crashing to the street. More yells as people came out of the buildings.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit … the old bastard’s torched the place. Oh shit.
Gareth rubbed his face with one hand, picked up and clutched the papers to his chest again, and limped in the opposite direction.
Keep calm. Calm.
Nobody had seen him. It’s just a little fire … And if the place burned to the ground, so what? He had the file!
He limped in a happy hurry. I have her will. I have her will!
A sudden thought trapped him, gripped him by the throat as if he were in the hangman’s noose. He clutched the file desperately.
If the place burns to the ground, I will never be able to produce the bloody thing to prove me right!
Oh shit.
He stood stock still, turned and let the file fall to the road. Then he resumed his hurry away, no longer happy.
Constable Albert Griffin leaned down to the older man sitting on the curb in his pyjama suit and shaving coat. ‘Mr Campbell, you all right?’
‘Thank you, constable. A bit shaken, a bit singed, but altogether all right.’
‘The doctor is on his way.’
‘Good fellow. But I doubt he needed to be pulled from his bed.’
‘Better safe than not, Mr Campbell.’ Griffin straightened up. ‘You were lucky, sir.’
By the light of hand-held lanterns they looked towards a cluster of bed-clothed folk who carried buckets and wet towels with them, in and out of Mr Campbell’s offices.
‘I’m luckier I have a good set of lungs
to bellow and alert my neighbours.’
‘Seems you got it under control quick enough with the water urn, and dropping that heavy curtain.’ Griffin held his lantern up and the light wavered around them. ‘My men are checking a couple of laneways here. You said you hit the man on the head? We’ll get him if he’s down.’
Mr Campbell coughed. ‘My cricket arm is still good. I tossed a beauty—my ashtray, solid brass. Cracked him on the back of the head.’
The constable winced. ‘Certainly give him a headache. And you didn’t see his face?’
‘I did not.’
Griffin heaved in a sigh and exhaled loudly. ‘Second fire this week. Hope it doesn’t continue.’
Mr Campbell nodded. ‘Indeed.’
Griffin glanced over at two figures hurrying towards them. Young police officers—one with a lantern, the other carried a paper file in one hand and held a piece of clothing aloft in the other. ‘Sir, we found these. Still smoking a bit.’
Griffin set his lamp down and grabbed the waistcoat, peered at it, swiped at the smoulders. ‘Good work. And the file—is this one of yours, Mr Campbell?’
Joseph Campbell nodded as he read its title. ‘Yes.’
‘Stop hopping, Roberts.’
Roberts, fresh faced, pointed. ‘Sir, there’s a note in the pocket.’
Griffin poked fingers into the pocket and came out with a crumpled envelope. Bending to the lamplight, he read aloud, ‘To Ard O’Rourke, Post Office, Bendigo.’ He pulled the note from inside it. ‘My wife’s papers are safe from you. Leave me alone or I will go to the coppers.’ He turned the note over but there was nothing to see on the other side. ‘Do you make anything of that, Mr Campbell?’
Muffling a groan, Joseph waved his hand as if to say he had no clue.
