Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘This act of assassination against Mr Rupert Grantham, one of the most celebrated and respected men in the Colony, has set a terrible precedent. No landholder can ever again feel safe from the threat of assassination at the hands of vengeful bolters.’ The barrister gestured directly at the jury. ‘Without a shadow of a doubt James Leech and Will Barrenwood murdered Rupert Grantham in cold blood. Do your duty, gentlemen. Bring in a verdict of Guilty.

  Marmaduke led his fellow jurors as they filed into the cramped jury room. He placed his open watch on the table, ready to debate aspects of the case. The other jurymen dismissed the idea and took an instant vote with a show of hands – guilty.

  ‘Gentlemen, I feel this warrants further discussion. It seems an act of indecent haste to return a verdict involving the death penalty,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘in less than four minutes.’

  ‘Do you reckon they both murdered Grantham?’ the elderly foreman asked.

  Marmaduke hesitated. ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then we’re all agreed. No time to waste. I’ve got a business to run.’

  The verdict of Guilty was delivered. Marmaduke felt no sense of elation that justice had been done by Rupert. He felt hollow. Three lives wasted.

  Called upon to give his statement, Leech’s eyes were blazing like a zealot.

  ‘I demand a fair trial!’ He pointed at the barrister he had dismissed. ‘That bloody old woman was shoved in on us to lead us to our destruction!’ He spun around and pointed directly at Marmaduke. ‘This jury was biased against me. If I had my gun in hand I’d shoot the pack of you with the greatest of pleasure!’

  Leech repeatedly struck the dock with his fists in a violent out-pouring of rage.

  Marmaduke was now convinced. James Leech doesn’t belong in this court – or on the scaffold. He belongs in a lunatic asylum.

  Chief Justice Forbes was visibly shaken as he placed the black cloth on the crown of his head and pronounced the sentence of Death.

  The ruffians who had cheered Leech were on the brink of mutiny. A voice shrieked, ‘That bastard landowner Grantham was a tyrant! Leech did us all a favour!’

  James Leech broke free and, with the speed of a panther, hurled himself bodily at Will Barrenwood, hammering him with ferocious blows to the head.

  It took six policemen to restrain Leech, who was bucking like a wild animal.

  Marmaduke watched as Leech was dragged through the dense crowd that choked Hunter Street. Halfway along the short route to the gaol Leech went berserk at sight of the approaching Chief Magistrate.

  ‘Stand warned, you bastard. I’ll take my vengeance on you before I die!’

  Standing alone in the wind-blown street Marmaduke watched the mob milling around the condemned youths on their final walk to the prison, cheering Leech and chanting his name as if he was their leader.

  He was forced to face the truth. Rupert’s murder proved that now no man, no matter how powerful, was safe. The underbelly of the Colony was taking its revenge.

  Chapter 46

  In a quiet room at the Princess Alexandrina Hotel Marmaduke sat drinking with Edwin, exchanging their strangely parallel experiences of the day – both had ended in an execution.

  Marmaduke was unable to erase the face of James Leech from his mind and Paul Brown’s testimony of Leech’s strangely disturbing words – ‘I am a man!’ – uttered just before he murdered Rupert.

  ‘There’s no shadow of a doubt in my mind that Leech fired the shot that killed Rupert. But I’ve no way of knowing if a surgeon would diagnose James Leech as clinically mad – or mentally unbalanced. Although illiterate he’s far from unintelligent. He made a better fist of his defence than his half-baked barrister. Sorry to criticise one of your fraternity, Edwin.’

  ‘Feel free. You were there. I was not.’

  ‘Leech has the kind of animal magnetism that attracts weaker lads to follow him. I can’t escape the feeling there’s far more to this crime than came out in court.’

  ‘Some men are born with blood-lust,’ said Edwin. ‘Leech has a history of violence. Since he was transported here he’s been found guilty of two counts of violent assault. The second attack, on a wealthy landowner, Morden, landed him in an iron-gang for twelve months. He escaped a week prior to Rupert’s murder.’

  Marmaduke was stunned. ‘Morden! That name was raised in court. A convict assigned to Morden was called by James Leech to provide him with an alibi at the time of Rupert’s murder. But the witness flatly denied it.’

  Edwin nodded. ‘Witnesses often renege due to fear, coercion or a bribe. But it might have been the truth and he refused to provide Leech with a false alibi.’

  ‘What do you think, Edwin? This was no random murder. Either Leech harboured a personal grudge against Rupert. Or his desire for revenge was fuelled by Rupert’s enemies, who wanted him dead. Maybe men in high places promised Leech an alibi if he did the deed, then betrayed him.’

  ‘We’re never likely to know. The law is taking no chances of the rabble engineering his escape. Leech and Barrenwood are to be executed by midnight.’

  Marmaduke pulled the pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘Half of seven. Not long for a man to make his peace with God. Chief Justice Forbes refused them a stay of execution.’

  His voice was bleak. ‘It’s only taken us forty-five years to turn this God-given land into a penal colony where scaffolds and flogging posts spread across the landscape like the plague.’

  Edwin refilled their glasses. ‘I wonder if future generations will condemn us?’

  ‘God only knows, mate. But I reckon I’ve got my time cut out trying to deal with my generation. This trial really bounced home the truth. James Leech did far more than escape from an iron-gang and murder a powerful man. He declared war on the whole rotten System. No landholder is safe from some escapee who sees himself as an avenging angel – ready to forfeit his own life to send a member of the Ruling Class to Hell ahead of him.’

  Edwin nodded. ‘I take it you are concerned about your father’s reputation for turning a blind eye to his overseer’s brutality?’

  ‘Yeah. Garnet’s a rogue and I’ve been at war with him since the cradle but that doesn’t mean I’d stand by and see him butchered. At first light I’m heading back to Bloodwood to put security measures in place. I’ve got Isabel to protect – and very soon little Rose Alba. Have you found a record of her birth?’

  ‘Nothing in the English parish records, I’m told. Legally she doesn’t exist. But don’t worry, old chap. I’ll make her adoption watertight.’

  Marmaduke hesitated before raising the question he had tried to avoid for weeks, the threat to his pride and independence. Money. ‘You know how I hate banks, Edwin,’ he began. ‘I’d rather swim across the Tasman to New Zealand than borrow money from Garnet. Well, the thing is, I’m beginning to wonder if I can get Mingaletta up and running without a loan.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It’s a big enterprise, old chap.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve toted up the costs of building a homestead, putting in dams, felling timber and stocking a property that Garnet ran into the ground after Mother died. There’s nothing there but kangaroos and wild brumbies. Don’t get me wrong. I know I can make a real go of it. I’ll work my guts out to give Isabel and the kid a good life. But I’m going to be cutting it fine. I want you to sell my shares in everything except Mendoza’s Store. Jos is like family and I wouldn’t risk selling my partnership to some bloke who’d rip him off. It’s not dead urgent, mate, but if push does come to shove, what’s the safest short-term loan?’

  Edwin nodded. ‘Understood. I’ll look into the question of a private loan at a reasonable rate of interest. Sometimes a new settler has money to invest.’

  ‘Just as long as his name isn’t Silas de Rolland, right?’ Marmaduke said lightly but both understood the threat beneath their laughter.

  The last high C of Josepha St John’s final encore was greeted by an emotional round of applause and thunderous stamping of feet from a
n audience that believed this was the American Nightingale’s swansong in the Colony and was unwilling for her to leave the stage.

  Marmaduke reluctantly decided to forego the pleasure of watching two knockabout comedians bring the house down. He slipped out of his dress-circle box and made his way past Barnett Levey’s office to the dressing-rooms backstage.

  Despite Josepha’s earlier note of acquiescence, Marmaduke felt uncertain about his reception when he knocked on her door. He was admitted by Josepha’s dresser, Bessie. The shy little Aboriginal girl silently took her cue from her mistress, bobbed and departed.

  Josepha was ready for him, posed before the dressing-table mirror. Her bare shoulders were bathed in candlelight and swathed in gold-coloured tulle. He saw in her eyes that familiar mixture of elation, bravado and childlike uncertainty he had seen in actors immediately after their exit off stage, when despite the lingering sound of rousing applause they are again vulnerable about their performance and hungry for praise.

  The air in the tiny room was a war between two heady perfumes – the basket of flowers he had sent her and the exotic fragrance of Egyptian jasmine that was Josepha’s signature perfume. The scent rising from the coiled nest of her hair and the warmth of her flesh aroused vivid memories of the torrid nights they had spent in bed. Despite his good intentions Marmaduke felt his pulse racing. Nostalgia did not have the same driving power as lust, but Josepha was not a woman easily forgotten and Marmaduke was not a man to forget.

  He bent and kissed her hand. ‘Your performance tonight was riveting, Josepha. A superb memory to be treasured by your audience. They couldn’t bear to let you go. The Colony’s loss is Argentina’s gain. But why didn’t you tell me your change of plans?’

  Joseph smiled enigmatically. ‘Would it have changed your mind about coming with me? Marriage to your little blue-blooded bride has clipped your wings, n’est-ce pas?’

  Both were aware that Josepha’s fluency in the French language was confined to a handful of song lyrics she had learnt by heart. This gentle pretence was a game that Marmaduke continued to play – but honesty was also an intrinsic part of their relationship.

  ‘I told you the truth, Josepha. I had no intention of falling in love with any woman. Heaven forbid not with my own wife! It took me by surprise to find an artless young girl who hated all men – needed me. Like a prize fool I lost my heart to her.’

  Josepha’s romantic sigh was purely theatrical. ‘You should set those words to music. A lyrical love song like that would no doubt appeal to the masses.’

  Marmaduke knew she was hurt and wanted them to part as friends. He must allow her to save face by playing the leading role in their final scene together.

  ‘If I wrote any song it would be for you, Josepha. A tribute to a beautiful woman of a certain age who gave a Currency Lad more pleasure than he had any right to deserve.’

  ‘Write that and I promise to sing it!’ she said with the infectious note in her voice that always drew them together in shared laughter.

  Josepha ran her hands playfully along the collar of his coat and as he bent to kiss her cheek she turned her head quickly and took his mouth in a kiss that lingered.

  Finally she drew back and sank onto the cushioned sofa. ‘Oh dear. That resembled the kiss of a faithful husband caught by surprise.’

  He could not deny it. ‘But I’m never less than your faithful friend, Josepha. I really want you to reassure me that when you depart these shores you’ll be happy under the protection of your mysterious Frenchman. Surely by now he can reveal himself? Unless he’s some claimant to the French throne?’

  ‘Mysterious, indeed. You are the one lover in my life who has always been honest with me. You deserve no less from me. That gentleman is very generous, but he’s not quite what he portrayed himself to be. His name, his title – he was travelling incognito. He isn’t even French.’

  She waved her hand gracefully to draw attention to her large ruby ring.

  ‘Whereas the ring you gave me was, like you, totally genuine.’ She paused for effect. ‘I must warn you Marmaduke that my protector has long been unusually interested in you. Now I know why.’

  Marmaduke stiffened, suddenly sure he knew the answer before he asked the question. ‘His real name?’

  Josepha’s luminous dark eyes studied him over the rim of her ostrich feather fan.

  ‘Silas de Rolland. I presume he is a member of your bride’s family, but why his elaborate subterfuge?’

  ‘It is the nature of the beast.’ Marmaduke said equally casually, ‘Is he going to accompany you to South America?’

  ‘Not for some time. He has persuaded me to remain in the Colony a little longer. He has leased a grand house in the country from some military officer who’s transferred to India. I am going there to entertain his guests. No doubt Penkivil Park is miles from you?’

  ‘Ten,’ Marmaduke said promptly. Hell. Penkivil Park! I don’t know how to warn her about Silas without putting Isabel in danger.

  ‘Then we will meet again, I trust. Tell me, Marmaduke, why has your wife’s kinsman not contacted you directly?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Josepha. It goes back to the War of the Roses. But if you are staying at Penkivil Park, I guarantee you and I will meet again.’

  Josepha’s sigh came with a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. ‘If only I had been born closer to your age, Marmaduke, what a life we would have shared.’

  Marmaduke tried to conceal the fact he was desperate to depart and return to Isabel. But Josepha had obliquely warned him about Silas de Rolland and he was grateful. ‘I am only thankful that we did meet and make love, Josepha. John Donne spoke for me when he wrote: No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace, As I have seen in one Autumnal face.’

  Josepha tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. ‘Go, sweetheart,’ she commanded, ‘before I regret my warning about Silas. And tell my little black dresser I must change my gown. Barnett’s giving a farewell supper for me with the whole cast.’

  Marmaduke paused in the doorway. He must pay her a final tribute in words that were his own, not borrowed from a poet. ‘We had something special. There will never be another Josepha St John in my life.’

  ‘And only one Currency Lad in mine, darling,’ she said softly.

  The last glimpse Marmaduke had of the actress she was studying her image in the mirror, dabbing a powder puff under her eyes. Was this to camouflage dark shadows or her tears?

  Chapter 47

  The midday sun seemed, to Isabel, to be draining the air of oxygen and replacing it with a pall of humidity that made breathing difficult.

  Seated beside Queenie on the front terrace, she felt rivulets of sweat coursing down her back, between her breasts and making her petticoats stick to her thighs. Her hair curled in a mass of wet tendrils on her forehead and at the nape of her neck. Isabel abandoned the use of her fan because it demanded more effort than relief.

  ‘Tell me, Queenie, how long did it take you to get used to this heat?’

  ‘You call this heat? Coming from India, I’m not the person to ask, girl. But when you stop expecting snow to fall at Christmas, you’ll be on the road to adjustment. You had best grow to like what you can’t change, Isabel.’

  Isabel nodded agreement. She put aside her sewing, the embroidered cushion for Garnet’s birthday that had been abandoned by Elise before she bolted. She bunched her skirt and petticoats to fan her nether limbs – a most unladylike gesture unthinkable at home.

  She caught Queenie’s eye and said defensively, ‘Who cares? No one can see me!’

  ‘I didn’t say a word,’ Queenie said but there was wicked gleam in her eye when Amaru chortled, ‘That’s the way to do it, that’s the way to do it!’

  ‘You’re a pretty clever bird, Amaru, I just love the way you choose appropriate phrases. I can’t believe it’s an accident.’

  ‘Love is blind, love is blind!’ he squawked and broke into a cackle of laughter that sounded almost human.

&n
bsp; ‘That’s Miranda’s doing. She spent hours each day teaching Amaru to speak when she was bored, forced to remain in bed to avoid a premature birth during the last months before Marmaduke was born. Miranda looked very voluptuous but she had great trouble giving birth.’ Queenie looked over her spectacles and said pointedly, ‘She didn’t have child-bearing hips. You won’t have much trouble.’

  Isabel was quick to change the conversation to Mingaletta and how frustrated she was at not being able to monitor the building progress because Marmaduke had vetoed her visits to the site until his return.

  ‘All I can do is study the blueprint and try to decipher what all the arrows and scrawled numbers and adjustments mean. It’s very frustrating, Queenie. Couldn’t we slip down one day and look at it when the men have returned to their cabins?’

  Queenie gave her a severe look. ‘You’re supposed to be Marmaduke’s ally. Not going behind his back, girl.’

  Isabel felt chastened and, as always when nervous, her appetite increased. When she had eaten a second slice of Summer Pudding, she felt Queenie eyeing her knowingly.

  ‘All right, I know I’m putting on weight. But Rubens’s nudes are Marmaduke’s idea of the perfect woman so if I keep on like this I soon will be too.’

  Queenie was watching her speculatively and Isabel decided it was wise to change the subject yet again. In Marmaduke’s absence the threat of Silas’s near residence had heightened her anxiety. The line was blurred between reality, imagination and memory.

  She wondered if the strain of hiding two secrets from Marmaduke and everyone else had triggered the return of the element that had been dormant for many months. The invisible presence of the Other.

  She wasn’t sure if it was safe ground to discuss with Queenie so she began tentatively. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Queenie. Marmaduke said this house used to be haunted. And I understand you have the gift of seeing...ghosts. Several times in recent nights I’m sure I heard footsteps in the corridor outside the nursery. And an odd clicking sound before the footsteps faded away down the gallery in the direction of Miranda’s portrait and the priest hole. But there was no one there.’