Her great-grandfather’s first view of the land on which the family mansion now stood had been from the deck of a sailing ship as it passed though Sydney Heads. Harry Scott was one of three hundred and eighteen convicts aboard the vessel, transported to the colony of New South Wales to serve out sentences imposed by a London magistrate. After serving out his time on a free settler’s property near Maitland, he returned to Sydney to make a fresh start, taking Daphne Bowes, the pretty but capricious daughter of the local Methodist minister with him.
After a year of hanging around the docks, buying, selling, and sometimes stealing contraband smuggled in by sailors, Harry had enough capital to start a legitimate business. Their first child was born the day after he opened a small shop in the Rocks district. It was then Harry decided he and Daphne should marry, and in keeping with their elevation into the local business community, it seemed fitting to bestow the hyphenated name of Bowes-Scott on both their new-born son and the new business.
The elegant Carlton Hotel was located just three doors down from the big Bowes-Scott department store in the centre of the city. Stephen, immaculate in a dark grey business suit, sat anxiously nursing a double whiskey in one of its gracious restaurants. He rose quickly when he saw the maître d’ leading Eleanor to his small table for two beside a window overlooking Castlereagh Street.
Eleanor looked lovely and, as always, totally in charge. She was tall, dark-eyed with short black hair and a pale complexion. She walked across the crowded room, smiling, confident and self-assured in a stylish dress, cleverly designed to provide just a hint of her well-rounded figure beneath it. A number of people recognized her and she acknowledged their presence with a small, almost regal wave.
Her smile disappeared when she reached the table and saw Stephen’s face. He looked gaunt and drawn and there was a furtive look in his eyes. Eleanor knew immediately something was wrong. When she was seated, the maître d’ withdrew and she reached across the table and took Stephen’s hand in both of hers. It felt hot and clammy.
‘My darling,’ she began loudly, then lowered her voice as she noticed an elderly couple at the next table looking on, ‘You look terrible. What on earth is wrong?’
Stephen drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, nothing really, Eleanor.’ He tried to free his hand from hers but she just squeezed it tighter. ‘It’s just that I didn’t sleep well last night. In fact I didn’t sleep at all.’
‘My poor darling.’ Eleanor purred compassionately. She frowned, then whispered softly, ‘Is it about us, Stephen? I do hope your not having silly second thoughts about our marriage again?’
‘Well, yes, Eleanor. You see…’
A waiter arrived at the table with menus. Stephen was relieved when Eleanor released his hand to take one.
The waiter bowed his head slightly
‘An appetizer, Madam?’
Eleanor’s eyes quickly scanned the menu.
‘Perhaps the smoked oysters.’
‘And you, sir?’
‘No, nothing to eat just yet.’ Stephen studied the glass in his hand for a moment. ‘But bring me another whiskey, please.’
The waiter turned and walked away. It was then Stephen noticed the maître d’ was glancing at him from his little lectern at the entrance to the restaurant. In between glances he was talking intently with two insistent-looking men. The maître d’ appeared flustered and agitated. The two men didn’t look like the restaurant’s usual well-heeled clientele. One was wearing an ill-fitting suit and the other, a middle-aged overweight man, wore a light raincoat which he made no move to take off. Stephen felt his face flush and his heart started to thump when the maître d’ began to lead the men towards his table.
Eleanor was startled to see the apprehension on Stephen’s face. She had never seen him so tense before.
The maître d’ reached the table a couple of steps ahead of the two men. He leaned over discreetly and said softly. ‘These gentlemen would like a word with you, Mr Fairchild. I’m sorry but I…’
‘Stephen Fairchild?’ The man in the raincoat broke in, in a loud authoritative voice .
‘Yes.’
‘I am Inspector Proudfoot of the New South Wales police.’ The policeman continued to speak loudly with no effort to minimize any embarrassment his intrusion might cause. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany us to the station.’
The elderly couple at the next table looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Diners at other nearby tables turned their heads. Eleanor was outraged by the policeman’s lack of courtesy.
Stephen rose to his feet. ‘May I ask what this is all about?’
The Inspector grinned knowingly. ‘I think you know well what it’s all about, Mr Fairchild.’ He reached out and took Stephen’s arm none too gently. ‘Come along then.’
Proudfoot’s arrogance infuriated Stephen. ‘I’m a solicitor, Inspector.’ he said angrily and pulled his sleeve from the inspector’s grasp. ‘I am well aware of what is required of me and I will co-operate with you. But I will not allow you to intimidate me.’
Proudfoot feigned surprise, and for a moment it seemed as if he would retreat from his belligerent attitude. But then he grinned again, and said sarcastically, ‘Oh, we know very well who you are, Mr Fairchild. We only asked you to accompany us to the station so you could avoid the embarrassment of being interviewed here in a public place’
Now Eleanor rose to her feet. ‘It seems to me, Inspector,’ she said loudly, ‘that embarrassing Mr Fairchild is your prime purpose here today.’
Now all eyes in the restaurant were on Proudfoot. His face turned crimson. He turned to Eleanor, eyes bulging.
‘And who might you be, Miss?’
‘I’m Eleanor Bowes-Scott.’
The policeman let the name Bowes-Scott sink in. He recognized it and knew there would be few people in the restaurant who did not. Now acutely embarrassed, he looked around awkwardly, first at the maître d’, then at the other policeman in the ill-fitting suit, and lastly at the sea of faces staring at him from around the room. But Proudfoot was determined not to be put down. After a moment he said, ‘Well, Miss Bowes-Scott, I would have thought you of all people would have preferred this matter to be discussed in private.’
‘Look, Inspector, can we discuss this outside?’ Stephen asked, trying to end the impasse.
The inspector gave Eleanor a triumphant I-told-you-so look.
Now it was Eleanor who would not be snubbed.
‘Are you arresting my fiancé, Inspector Proudfoot?’
Proudfoot looked exasperated. ‘No, Miss Bowes-Scott. But I will if I have to.’
‘For what?’ Eleanor snapped, then added sarcastically, ‘Now you’ve managed to get everyone’s attention, you might as well tell us all.’
Now all eyes were on Proudfoot. His face turned a deeper shade of crimson. He felt out of place in this fancy restaurant surrounded by Sydney’s elite, trading insults with a smart alec socialite. He had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure there would be no mention of the killing at the armory in the newspapers, at least until after the private’s identification of Stephen Fairchild had been checked out. It was only because of the potential political consequences of hasty police action, that the son of Fenton Fairchild, one of Sydney’s most prominent solicitors, had not been picked up and carted off to the watch-house in the middle of the night like any ordinary citizen.
But the police inspector was sure he was on firm ground. The private had identified Stephen Fairchild from photographs of New Guard pilots he had seen recently in the newspapers. Proudfoot knew he didn’t have to tread lightly if he didn’t want to.
‘All right Miss Bowes-Scott,’ he said, directing his words more toward the onlookers than Eleanor. ‘There was a serious offence committed last night and we have a witness who claims Mr Fairchild here was involved. If he cannot satisfactorily explain his movements last night, I shall arrest him here and now.’ Proudfoot turned to Stephen. ‘Well, Mr Fairchild?’
Stephen was t
hinking on his feet. He had come directly from his house to the Carlton Hotel. The police hadn’t been to the house and the only person who knew where he was lunching was his secretary. If the police had been to the office to check his whereabouts the night before with his father, Fenton Fairchild would have said nothing before talking to his son. Stephen was sure all Proudfoot had at the moment was at best, the private’s word against his.
‘I went to bed very early last night,’ Stephen said, hoping he sounded convincing. ‘I didn’t feel well.’
Proudfoot smirked. ‘And I suppose you have someone absolutely beyond reproach who can vouch for that, Mr Fairchild?’
‘Of course he has.’ Eleanor said quickly.
‘And who would that be, Miss Bowes-Scott?’ Proudfoot said patronizingly, sensing he was close to the kill.
‘Why me, of course, Inspector Proudfoot,’ Eleanor said loudly. Then to everyone’s surprise she added, ‘Mr Fairchild spent the entire night with me. In my bed.’
*
‘I shall act as your counsel in this matter, Stephen, if it becomes necessary. It’s impossible for you to represent yourself. A lawyer who acts for himself has a fool for a client,’ Fenton Fairchild said, repeating the time-honored adage after Stephen had finished relating the shocking events of the night before.
Stephen, his father and Eleanor sat at the conference room table. Stephen and Eleanor had hurried from the Carlton Hotel to the chambers of Fairchild & Associates immediately after Stephen had agreed to be interviewed by Inspector Proudfoot at the law firm’s premises later in the afternoon, after he’d taken legal advice.
Fenton Fairchild rubbed his jaw thoughtfully for a few moments then walked over to the window overlooking the harbor. He stood staring out at the construction activity on the harbor bridge as he pondered the situation. Eventually he turned around to face Stephen and Eleanor.
‘When I pledged our support to the New Guard, I had no idea it could lead to something like this. I had hoped all that would be required of us was money, that the dirty work, albeit necessary, would be left to others. However, it is a good cause and what’s done is done. If we’re in for a penny, we must be in for a pound.’
Fairchild came back to the table and sat down. He took Eleanor’s hand gently in his. ‘What you did at the hotel was very courageous, my dear. And it was also very astute. Stephen could well be charged with murder, or at the very least as an accomplice. Thanks to you, I don’t think it will come to a trial, but if it did, without you providing a credible alibi for Stephen, it would be very difficult for me to put up a strong defense. ’
Eleanor smiled modestly. ‘It’s the least I can do for my future husband, Mr Fairchild.’ She reached out and took Stephen’s hand with her free hand, then squeezed the hands of both father and son. ‘After all, family has to stick together.’
Fairchild looked from Eleanor to Stephen who sat with his eyes downcast, looking grim and vulnerable. The older Fairchild’s blue eyes moistened. He turned back to Eleanor. ‘Thank you so much, my dear. You know, you could well have saved my son’s life.’
Stephen raised his head and looked into Eleanor’s eyes. He saw a trace of triumph in them and knew then what the price of his freedom would be.
*
There was no holding back the Sydney press the next day. Seeing the initial withholding by the police of any inkling of the sensational armory murder as a denial of their readers basic right to be informed, they all carried the story in banner headlines. One of the senior reporters of Sydney’s largest newspaper had had the good fortune to be lunching at the Carlton Hotel with a prominent state politician when Inspector Proudfoot had caused such a scene in the restaurant.
In a front page article the reporter expressed, not only his newspaper’s outrage at being kept in the dark by the police, but also what he saw as ‘the overbearing and totally unacceptable behavior by one of the force’s senior officers who, supposedly in the normal course of investigations, had harassed innocent, law-abiding citizens in a public place.’
The lengthy article took the freedom of the press to its very limits. The reporter named Inspector Edward Proudfoot several times, describing him as a rude and insensitive policeman caught out barking up the wrong tree. But he declined to name Stephen Fairchild, a partner in one of Sydney’s most powerful law firms, and in deference to the huge Bowes-Scott department store chain, which was one of his paper’s largest advertisers, he chose only to identity Eleanor as ‘a refined and lovely young lady brought to the very verge of tears by an incompetent and insensitive oaf.’
*
It was a little over three months since Emma had started work at Mrs Shapiro’s. Although she found sewing school uniforms relatively simple and sometimes rather boring, she worked hard, grateful for the opportunity she had been given.
Mrs Shapiro was more than pleased with Emma’s work and had told her she had a permanent job for as long as she wanted it. Emma was delighted to be making nearly three pounds a week on a piecework basis. When there was extra work, she worked longer hours in the evenings and on Saturdays, but Mrs Shapiro being a devout Christian woman, never allowed anyone to work on Sundays or religious holidays.
Emma gave half of whatever money was left over each week, after paying for Mrs Nadin’s room and board, to Miss Potts at Crestview. The balance she carefully saved in her father’s brown wallet tucked safely under her mattress, adding to the almost fifteen pounds she had left when she arrived in Armidale. Emma lived for the day when she could afford to rent a small cottage where she and her mother and brothers could be together.
She visited her mother as often as possible, a few times during the week and always on Saturdays and Sundays. Each time Emma saw Kathleen she seemed to be improving, and taking an interest in everything and everyone around her. Sometimes they would sit together in Crestview’s lovely garden while Emma wrote to the twins.
As Kathleen’s condition improved, she began adding a few lines herself at the end of the letters, usually asking her sons to write more often. There had only been two letters from Hope Farm. Both had been written by Jack and seemed rather short and not very newsy. Emma told Kathleen it was probably because the twins were too busy enjoying themselves.
Emma found herself looking forward more and more to Stephen’s letters. She thought of him constantly. Their few days in Port Macquarie together had been the most wonderful time in her life. He had written every few days until just recently. But now it had been nearly two weeks since she had heard from him. In his last letter he had said he would fly up to New England when he could. Emma hoped it would be soon.
Emma was always the first to leave Mrs Nadin’s in the morning. The girls attending the teacher’s college left a full hour later. Her early start allowed her to get ready for work before the girls’ mad rush started for the bathroom and the lavatory.
This morning, Emma woke early. She opened her eyes slowly then swung her feet onto the floor. The sudden movement made her head swim. Then she retched. She pulled on her dressing gown and hurried to the bathroom down the landing. She barely made it before she threw up. She had felt sick in the morning a few times before but hadn’t given it a second thought. Then, to her horror, she realized that she had also missed her period.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bruce had no idea why the nightmare he had been living suddenly ended. But one morning at breakfast, Brother Lucas removed the red armband and announced that in future the McKenna twins would be identified by their Christian names sewn onto their shirts. He also told Bruce that he was permitted to the take the free afternoon off each week and could swim in the water hole if he wished, privileges that had been withdrawn as part of his punishment.
Two days later, Brother Lucas gave the twins their first letter from Emma. They were pleased to hear of the improvement in their mother’s health and Bruce was glad he at last had an address to send his letter to Emma, telling her about his treatment at Hope Farm. But as time went by and more pleasant le
tters were received from Emma and his mother, Bruce couldn’t understand why they made no mention of his letter at all.
Bruce began to get along better with Strickland. Occasionally they would exchange a few words. Strickland, it turned out, was not only one of the biggest of the boys at Hope Farm but, at fifteen was one of the oldest. And Bruce came to realize that his tough attitude was just a thin veneer, covering up the loneliness and despondency shared by every boy at Hope Farm. Only rarely would Strickland allow himself to open up, afraid his outer shield would be penetrated, leaving his real personality exposed and his status among the boys diminished.
Bruce became convinced his first letter to Emma and a second must have gone astray in the mail. One evening he went up to the dormitory as soon as the evening meal was over to write another. Soon after he started writing, Strickland entered the room and just stood staring at Bruce as he lay on his bed, pencil and paper in hand.
Bruce looked up. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re just wasting your time, mate,’ Strickland said as he began taking off his clothes.
‘Why’s that?’ Bruce asked.
‘Your sister won’t get that letter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘None of your letters ever get off the farm.’
Bruce put down the pencil. ‘What are you saying, Strickland?’
‘Don’t talk so loud,’ Strickland cautioned. He laid the last of his clothes on the chair beside his bed and climbed in. ‘I’m saying no letters go off this farm unless Brother Lucas allows them to. He censors them all.’
Bruce looked horrified. ‘How do you know?’ he whispered.
‘I just know.’
‘But he can’t read every single letter that’s written here.’
‘Why not? There’s not many to read. Most of the boys have no one to write to anyway.’
‘But how do you know for certain he reads any of them?’ Bruce insisted.
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