The Soldier's Curse

by Thomas Keneally

  Monsarrat had never used Mrs Mulrooney’s first name – she was big on the proprieties, and he had quickly learned to do everything possible to avoid offending her. But now they were as close to the edge of the cliff as they had ever been, and the weight of propriety, he felt, might cause the unstable ground to fall out from beneath them.

  ‘Hannah, you are not going to sacrifice yourself. I will see to it. You may confess to every killing that has ever occurred in this place, and I will still see to it that you walk out of here a free woman. Depend on it.’

  If he was concerned about giving offence, he needn’t have been, as Mrs Mulrooney followed his lead. ‘Hugh, I know how dependable you are. But if the price of my freedom is Fergal’s life, then I’m not interested. I’m not overjoyed at the prospect of hanging, but hang I will, and any protestations from you will make no difference except to make my agony a little keener. Please, accept my decision. It’s mine to make.’

  Chapter 27

  Monsarrat had no intention of accepting Mrs Mulrooney’s decision.

  They had sat together a while longer, after the outburst. He had held her hand. She had drawn her rosary beads from her pocket, where they must’ve rubbed up against Slattery’s stick, and asked him to pray with her. He didn’t have the first clue how to say a Hail Mary, but he bowed his head and said amen at the right point, and that seemed to bring her some comfort.

  He left with the promise to return the next day, if allowed by the major.

  ‘Only come back if you are willing to let me follow the course of action I’ve determined on, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, now clearly back on a more formal footing. ‘Otherwise you’ll just sadden me.’

  So he would pretend, if he had to, that he was going to allow her to go through with this act of martyrdom. But he would also work to undermine her, something he had never thought he would deliberately do with this woman.

  He faced a problem, though – Mrs Mulrooney, as usual, was right. If the murderer had confessed, any alternative theory of the crime would be seen as wishful thinking at best, and an attempt to divert suspicion at worst. He realised, then, that nothing would save Mrs Mulrooney but a full confession from Fergal Slattery.

  He had no idea, however, how to go about obtaining that confession. If it was only uttered in Monsarrat’s presence, it would be useless. Slattery could always deny it, and who would disbelieve him when such a convenient criminal was so helpfully offering herself to the gallows?

  For a second night, he didn’t sleep well, and again it had very little to do with the cold radiating from the river stones. He tested out a number of strategies in his mind – from attempting to lead Slattery obliquely into a confession, to a full confrontation.

  By morning, he had resolved that the best course of action was to calmly confront the lad. True, preferably in front of witnesses. Once Fergal realised that Monsarrat knew the truth, he might flee; he might even turn against Monsarrat. Who knew what the boy was capable of, when a month ago Monsarrat would have not believed him capable of slow poison?

  But any attempt to lead Slattery into a confession, without him realising the nature of the path he was following Monsarrat down, would probably fail – Slattery was intelligent, and a consummate bluffer. Rattling the bluff out of him with a bald accusation was the only hope.

  Monsarrat spent the day quietly in his workroom, as he had the day before, occasionally entering the major’s office on request to take dictation. He was a paragon of silence and industry. It was his hope that in giving the major a break from his arguments in favour of Mrs Mulrooney, the man might be more receptive later.

  In the meantime, the backlog of paperwork needed to be cleared. He shuttled between the major’s study and his own, taking dictation on the output from the sugarcane and tobacco plantations, the quantity of cedar and rosewood felled and sawed at the port that month, the amount of grain produced, those convicts who had been punished by working the treadmill to grind it, and the progress of the maize crop.

  There were also reports on convict discipline for the month. Monsarrat tried not to show, by the merest flicker, any reaction when the major dictated the words: ‘William Dory, aged eighteen, absconded. Thirty lashes. Perished two days later from an infection.’

  So Diamond had taken the papers, as Dr Gonville had suspected, and given the major incorrect information. No one had as yet stepped forward to contradict him, because no one would at this stage know of the deception. Monsarrat considered it. But, he realised, his could not be the lone voice. He, as much as any of them, was a recidivist, proven twice untrustworthy. He would need to find a sponsor with more authority and less criminality than he, and reporting Diamond would not help Dory. As well, there were other more pressing considerations.

  The administrative niceties complete, the major leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘Well, Monsarrat. Let’s not delay the evil necessity any longer. You know, I suspect, the nature of the letter I am now going to dictate.’

  Monsarrat said nothing, but nodded grimly and readied a fresh sheet of paper.

  ‘“Sir”,’ said the major,

  I have the honour to acquaint you with information which has come to light regarding the circumstances of my wife’s death.

  On advice from this settlement’s doctor, Richard Gonville, it has become apparent that my wife’s passing was caused by the deliberate administration of arsenic over a period of some weeks.

  The doctor informs me that the substance may be absorbed through the skin, and speculates that it is possible any murderer might try to avoid contact with it, to avoid poisoning him or herself.

  However, the greater likelihood is that the poison was administered through food and drink, by a person in a position to do so on a regular basis without arousing suspicion. The only person who meets this description is our housekeeper and cook, Mrs Hannah Mulrooney, a ticket-of-leave woman who has been of good character since her initial crime. The doctor informs me that the poison must have been administered through the tea Mrs Mulrooney brewed daily for my wife, making her culpability in this matter likely. A motive is at this stage unclear, as Mrs Mulrooney has made no statement regarding the crime.

  I have confined Mrs Mulrooney to the gaol for now, pending your instructions on conveying her to Sydney for trial. In the meantime, I intend to depose her and those close to her, and send this information to you for the perusal of the Attorney-General and Crown Solicitor.

  ‘“I remain, sir, your obedient servant” – Monsarrat, I know you will not relish making a fair copy of this; however, I wish it to go at the earliest possibility to Sydney. Please transcribe it immediately and place it on my desk for signature.’

  As always, Monsarrat did as he was told, reassuring himself that the letter would be irrelevant once he obtained Slattery’s confession. Nevertheless, a number of ink blotches, of the type Monsarrat would never have countenanced in the normal run of things, found their way onto the paper which the major eventually signed.

  * * *

  The major dismissed Monsarrat in the late afternoon. Leaving the office, he saw smoke coming from the kitchen chimney. He knocked on the door, received a croaky ‘yes’, and entered.

  At the hob was Peg McGreevy, her gout obviously much recovered. Having been transported for theft, she was housekeeper to Thomas Carleton’s wife, and was then sent here for drunkenness and neglecting work. She was of an age with Mrs Mulrooney, but the pair had never really got along. Mrs Mulrooney thought Peg was a bit slapdash in the way she went about things – she certainly lacked the precision which Mrs Mulrooney thought was essential. And she probably, Mrs Mulrooney had confided, would let the kitchen things get into all sorts of states.

  Monsarrat had no idea how Mrs McGreevy felt about Mrs Mulrooney – possibly that her countrywoman was too big for her boots, having been a convict, after all.

  On taking in the kitchen, though, Monsarrat felt Mrs Mulrooney might have a point. Water from a bubbling pot on the stove had splashed o
nto the floor, and breadcrumbs littered the table. Monsarrat could not remember seeing so much as the ghost of a breadcrumb during Mrs Mulrooney’s tenure.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs McGreevy,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Monsarrat. Have you permission to be in here? I don’t want to be punished for something I didn’t do, letting you in when I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Please don’t trouble yourself – I will only stay a moment. I just wanted to ask whether you’ve seen Private Fergal Slattery; he’s been in the habit in the past of coming here, but he hasn’t done so for a few days now.’

  ‘I don’t socialise with the soldiers, Mr Monsarrat. The only one I’ve seen today was young Cooper, when he came and fetched me up here. He wouldn’t tell me where Mulrooney’s gone, but there are rumours all about the camp. She’s been arrested, they say. Young Meehan, now, he’s a guard at the gaol. He says she’s been sitting in there staring at the wall for a day. So I suppose she was no more virtuous than the rest of us after all, though God alone knows what she did to get in there.’

  While saying this, she had been spooning tea leaves into a teapot (without warming it first), and pouring boiling water directly onto them, making Monsarrat feel unaccountably annoyed. She looked at Monsarrat expectantly now, hoping he would tell her what had landed the housekeeper behind bars. She could then take this information back to the other women, considerably increasing her status by doing so. Monsarrat disappointed her, thanking her, bowing and leaving.

  In any case, he thought, Slattery would probably still be involved in regimental duties – no longer exempt by virtue of his plastering job.

  He decided to walk past the barracks and parade ground on the way down to the beach, on the off-chance of catching a glimpse of the young soldier. There was no parade in progress. In fact, there were very few soldiers around at all; possibly they were overseeing the overseers on the chain gangs or the lime-burners’ gang.

  As he often did when he was at a loss, Monsarrat went down to Lady Nelson Beach. He sat at the root of a large fang which pointed out into the water. He occasionally imagined he was looking towards home, but knew this wasn’t the case. He didn’t know what lay to the east of here, but it wasn’t England.

  As the dark set in, he stood. He had received permission from the major to visit Mrs Mulrooney again, and he had hoped to have some news for her when he did so. It seemed he would have to arrive empty-handed.

  The tide was going out – that much was obvious as he rounded the corner at the mouth of the Hastings River. The river here could eject its contents into the sea at quite an alarming rate, so that anyone foolish enough to swim during this time (and few could) would quickly find themselves looking helplessly at the settlement as it receded into the distance.

  Monsarrat plucked a small leaf from a fallen branch lying on the bank, and threw it onto the river surface. It was a game he played with himself sometimes – counting the number of seconds it would take for such an object to travel from this point to the river mouth. The speed with which the leaf bounded over the surface convinced him that the tide was a strong one. He had noticed vaguely, last night, that the moon had been full, and remembered the coxswain telling him that at such a time, more water made its way into and out of the river.

  He silently farewelled the leaf on its journey to unknown countries. But as he turned to make his way back to the settlement, he saw another object racing down the river towards him, this one much larger, and with a dull sheen to it.

  Planting his feet, he pivoted and grabbed the branch that lay behind him on the bank, turning and reaching out with it to arrest the progress of the object which was now nearly beyond his reach.

  He was able to hook the branch under its lip – for its mouth was narrower than its body. Lifting the branch above his head, he saw that what he had fished out of the river was a copper, much like the one that Slattery had been using at his still.

  And now, finally, stomping and cursing, came the man himself. Monsarrat noticed that Slattery walked with a barely perceptible limp, disguised by his long stride and lolloping gait. It occurred to Monsarrat that he had rarely seen the young soldier out of the confines of the kitchen, so his opportunities to assess the way he walked had been limited.

  As Slattery got closer in the gloom, he recognised Monsarrat, and smiled. ‘Ah, the gentleman fooking convict. Always there when not expected. Good evening to you, Mr Monsarrat. I believe you have something of mine there.’

  Monsarrat lowered the branch so that its tip, off which the copper was dangling, was pointed at Slattery. He doubted there were any traces left of the green substance in the bottom of it – probably the purpose for Slattery having it down by the river. ‘Doing a spot of sailing, were we? An interesting object to substitute for a toy boat.’

  ‘Just some housekeeping, you might say,’ said Slattery. ‘I wasn’t concentrating, and I lost a grip of the thing, and off it went sailing, and sailing it might still be if you hadn’t got a hold of it.’

  Monsarrat didn’t know whether he was imagining that edge to Slattery’s voice as he made this last statement.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in the kitchen for a while, Slattery,’ he said as Slattery retrieved the copper.

  ‘No, well, now that there’s no need of me for plastering purposes, I’m back to my regular soldierly duties. And unfortunately they don’t include visits to Mother Mulrooney, much to my disappointment. I have to say, I’m feeling the lack of tea.’

  ‘You’ll be feeling the lack of it for the rest of your life, one way or another. Either she’ll be dead, or you will, and which way the balance tips is very much in your power.’

  Slattery drew his brows together, looking at Monsarrat as though trying to discern whether he was being lied to, whether Monsarrat had developed a bluffing face as effective as his own. Monsarrat stood there, weathering the scrutiny. Slattery had a good, long look, drinking in as much information from Monsarrat’s features as he could. What he saw must’ve satisfied him as to Monsarrat’s honesty, for he sat down heavily on the riverbank.

  ‘I’d heard she had been arrested. It’s a common topic of conversation in the camp right now. But I thought the major would see through it; I thought maybe she might spend a night in gaol and then be released. Surely that’s what’s going to happen? They can’t try her – my blind father could see she is not capable of it.’

  ‘Capable of what, Fergal? The rumour may have spread that she has been arrested, but not even the gossip in chief, Peg McGreevy, knows what for.’

  Slattery stared at Monsarrat but didn’t speak, perhaps fearing that in trying to extricate himself from the web he was now beginning to sense, he would only make its strands cling to him more tightly.

  ‘And anyway, it seems your blind father can see more than the major. Diamond has him almost convinced. And why wouldn’t he? Who else had the opportunity to poison Mrs Shelborne?’

  Slattery kept staring, but showed no surprise at the revelation.

  ‘Very convenient to lay it at the door of the person who was responsible for feeding his wife before she died,’ Monsarrat continued. ‘And a former convict, too. I know a great many judges who would see this as a case with no need of a trial, who would want to move straight to sentencing, and of course we know that the sentence would be death. So it seems you and I, Fergal, are amongst the few who know of the crime she will be tried for, and the only ones who believe in her innocence.’

  Slattery opened his mouth then closed it. He sat for a moment, then spoke again. ‘You know, Monsarrat, I was about to ask you who you thought did kill the woman, if not Mrs Mulrooney. But we’ve shared too much tea to dance around each other, you and I. You know the identity of the person responsible, I’m almost certain.’

  Monsarrat didn’t answer, staring out at the river, and then looked at the copper which was now sitting between him and Slattery.

  ‘I presumed it was you who came to the clearing while I was away. I didn’t have a chance to dismantle it before I
was confined to the guardhouse. And then we were off in search of the major, and there’s been no opportunity until tonight to get there.’

  ‘I thought you were making poteen,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Poteen!’ Slattery laughed. ‘Of course, because I’m Irish, that must be what I was doing. Never mind the lack of a proper still, I can conjure it out of thin air! Magpie, I envy you a life so soft that you’ve never had to find out how spirits are distilled, or taste the results.’

  ‘I assume that foul green sludge is wafting out on the current as we speak,’ said Monsarrat.

  Slattery didn’t reply, but looked in the direction of its likely travel.

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Monsarrat. ‘About the properties of the wallpaper pigment, I mean.’

  ‘Ah, well, my years watching, I suppose. Everyone in Dublin, everyone everywhere, seemed to want that colour. We were constantly dealing with it. And some people in our crew would sicken, and some wouldn’t, but I didn’t really think much of it, for it’s the way of things, isn’t it, Monsarrat, that some fall and others stand? But that paper cost me a week’s wages. One time in Dublin, I had some laid out, all ready to put up, when a dog that belonged to the house wandered in. I didn’t notice him at first; I was concentrating on joining the two sheets I was working with – they have to be exact, Monsarrat, you can’t have any misshapen patterns. Anyway, this dog, behind my back, walks up to the paper and starts sniffing it, and then licking it and chewing at it a bit, the way they do.’

  ‘So you were docked a week’s wages for the loss of the paper?’

  ‘Yes, and the foreman was threatening to do awful things to the dog as well. But it turned out he didn’t need to. Later on I found the dog outside in the yard, dead. That’s when I first began to wonder – I like patterns, you see. Patterns on wallpaper. And others. And one pattern was that those who fell ill of the plastering crew, it was always the same kind of illness. They would start coughing, then get dizzy, perhaps throw up, but if they had to go home sick or take a few days off, they’d come back right as rain. Then it would start again, on the very same day they returned. I wondered, then, whether something in the wallpaper was at fault.’