The Unfortunate Victim

by Greg Pyers

  ‘We have missed your service at Tognini’s, haven’t we, dear?’ Mr Buckley said.

  Maggie blushed. Tognini’s Hotel in Burke Square was Maggie’s last place of employment before she became Mrs Stuart.

  ‘All I can say is that George Stuart is one very lucky man,’ he added, which did nothing to ease Maggie’s discomfort.

  ‘Would you like a scone?’ she said, and opened a tea towel in her basket. ‘Louisa baked them.’

  The Buckleys smiled at the girl, who blushed even redder over cheeks already rosy from a touch of sunburn.

  ‘Is your husband here?’ Mrs Buckley said.

  ‘He’s at a wrestling match, at Browne’s Hotel in Coomoora,’ Maggie said.

  ‘As a spectator, I hope!’ Mr Buckley quipped.

  Some women walked by and greeted Maggie with friendly hellos and promises to see her later in the day. She beamed back at them, happy to be there, and for the moment unconcerned by the chance that she might bump into Joe Latham sometime that afternoon.

  DAVID ROSE SLIPPED BEHIND the stump of a once-mighty gum, unbuttoned his flies, and aimed his piss at a yellow daisy. The flower bent before the stream and bobbed back, only to be slapped away again. He smiled at his puppetry and how well satisfied he was with himself coming up here today. He’d cadged lunch and beer, and, what was more, a steak for his dinner. And Mr Stanbridge’s foreman had told him there’d be a chance of some work if he’d like to come back tomorrow — though no promises, mind. He’d enjoyed the football game as well, the knocks and bumps nicely cushioned now by alcohol. He closed his eyes and let his head loll back for the mid-afternoon sun to fill his face as his bladder emptied. It had been a grand day all right …

  A moan came from somewhere nearby. And a whimpering — like that of a woman, it sounded. He drew back foliage. There was a hayshed, cleared out ready for this year’s harvest. And in the shadows within, a naked arse was hard at work, with a woman’s bare legs crossed over it. He crept forward for a better view.

  BY FOUR, THE CROWD had thinned to the point where any sensible people still remaining felt it was time to be going home lest they be left in the company of those who never knew when enough was enough. Maggie had chatted at length with Mr and Mrs Buckley, and in their company two pleasant hours had slipped by. Now, as they had left, she was homeward bound herself. She stood, and it took a moment for a sudden surge of dizziness to abate. An arm grasped her elbow.

  ‘Maggie, are you all right?’

  It was Johanna Hatson, a woman Maggie once worked with in the bar at Blanket Flat Hotel.

  ‘A touch of heat, I think. Thank you, Johanna.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’ The pair was joined by Louisa, and together they began back down the drive. Many other returning picnickers were strung out the length of the young avenue, chatting, laughing, or in quiet contemplation of the lovely day they’d just had.

  ‘Did you see that man?’ Johanna said suddenly, with open-mouthed alarm. ‘I think he was Italian. And filthy!’ She shook. ‘Ooo, he sent a shiver down my spine, I can tell you.’

  Maggie didn’t much care for stories of such men, and now resented Johanna’s being there.

  ‘What did he say?’ Louisa said. Johanna seemed taken aback by the girl’s boldness, but more gratified that some interest was being shown in her report.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t say anything — not to me, anyways. He was just so strange, looking at me and Mrs Telford and the other ladies on our rug. I’d wager he was staring at you, too, Maggie … Oh, there’s my boy. I must go. It was lovely to see you, and you,’ she added with a smile for Louisa, and bustled away.

  ‘Let’s not talk about strange men, Louisa,’ Maggie suggested with a smile.

  ‘She probably made it up.’

  ‘Yes, she probably did.’

  They’d reached the end of the drive, on Glenlyon Road, and enterprising young men were offering a taxi service for anyone preferring to trade the discomfort of walking the hot mile back into Vincent Street for that of a hard ride on the back of a dray. There was still room, and for tuppence the deal still seemed more than reasonable.

  ‘Come on,’ Maggie said. They clambered aboard, the boy flicked the reins, and they were away.

  MARY FOLEY WALKED WITH her new lover along the Wombat Park drive.

  ‘You won’t forget now, will you?’ she said with a grin.

  ‘How could I?’ Pearson Thompson said, head up and looking to the front.

  ‘A fair exchange, I think — flesh for brains. Don’t you think so, a fair exchange?’

  ‘I thought we’d established as much already.’

  Mary chuckled. ‘Ooh, you have a way with words! Mind you speak like that in court, now.’

  Pearson looked down at his diminutive companion, smiling up at his stony face. She was indeed a pretty young thing, he thought.

  ‘What are you thinking, you old devil?’ she said, poking a finger into his side. Actually, Pearson was considering how he’d arrived at this place in such a funk, yet here he was, a few hours on and the object of desire to this erotic creature of full mouth, ample breasts, and gyrating hip. It mattered not a jot to him that the attraction from her point of view might well be entirely commercial.

  ‘I was thinking, Mary, that it would be prudent to begin the preparation of your case as soon as possible. Drunk and disorderly is a very serious charge, you know, and as it’s not the first time for you, I think a thorough briefing is called for.’

  ‘What are you getting at, Pearson?’

  ‘I just thought you might, um …’

  ‘Pay twice? Is that what you thought?’

  A change in mood had come over Pearson’s picnic mistress, and he feared she might not have the self-restraint to keep it discreet in this public setting.

  ‘We have a contract, you and I have, Pearson, and I’ve kept my side. Now you keep yours!’

  MAGGIE LIT A CANDLE and placed it in its brass holder on the table. Though intense orange light from the setting sun beamed through the cottage’s two windows, Maggie liked to even out the transition from light to dark.

  ‘Your uncle will call for you soon?’

  Louisa nodded and Maggie smiled. She would be glad of her young companion’s company a little longer.

  ‘What shall we sing?’ Louisa said, a moment before a pebble struck the stone base of the fireplace and bounced out onto the floorboards.

  Maggie stood, and backed away, as if it might explode or leap at her.

  ‘It’s all right, Maggie,’ Louisa said, retrieving it from under the bench ‘It’s just a stone come loose, that’s all.’ But another rattled down the chimney and skittered out to come to rest at Maggie’s feet. And then came two more together.

  Louisa was standing now.

  Maggie turned for the door, grasped the knob and the key for turning … and stepped back as the door was pushed from the other side and George swayed in, red-nosed and grinning.

  ‘I didn’t scare you, did I, love?’

  Someone else appeared there, behind George. He swung around and extended a hand to William Rothery.

  ‘Will, me old neighbour. Come to collect the lass?’

  Rothery seemed unimpressed at the tipsiness, and motioned for Louisa to come along.

  As she had done on many occasions, she hugged Maggie and left with her uncle.

  George had seated himself on the bench.

  ‘A fine day, Maggie,’ he said. ‘See your ma?’

  Maggie nodded.

  ‘That’s good,’ George said, nodding that he was pleased to hear it. ‘Joe there — ? Hey, I see that tent’s still up across the way.’

  Maggie didn’t reply. George was rambling anyway. She took scones from the safe and placed them on a plate.

  George swung a leg over the bench and craned his head around to catch her eye.


  ‘Are you not feeling well, love? I’m sorry about them stones down the chimney — I meant no harm.’

  ‘Please, George, I don’t want to talk about it.’

  George stood, and put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder.

  ‘About them stones?’

  Maggie swung around.

  ‘Please, George. About Joe, or about the man in the tent.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, love, but when a man comes round asking his wife questions —’

  ‘George, please.’

  ‘You think I’m jealous?’

  Maggie didn’t reply. She felt George’s arm enclose her, and the squeeze of his right hand on her upper arm.

  ‘Well, Maggie, I’m not jealous. You are my wife, and will be till the end of time.’

  8

  TUESDAY 27th DECEMBER

  THE DAY BEFORE THE MURDER

  DAVID ROSE’S CALICO WAS folded and stowed in his swag by nine, before the heat could intimidate him into delaying for a day. For the comfort of having a few quid in his pocket should illness or injury lay him up, the imperative was to work. And strong though he felt in his bones and sinews, age would soon enough see infirmity intervene. What then for David Rose, he wondered.

  The good-looking woman wasn’t there when he went by up Albert Street. He watched in case she came out, and even when he was well past, he turned about-face for a final look. But no. Such a modest cottage she lived in, but how happy a circumstance it would be to live in it with such a beauty to keep him! He adjusted his load across his back and set a course for Wombat Park.

  A woman was approaching. She’d emerged from the next house along — Pitman’s refreshment room, a ramshackle affair of lean-to additions and an undulating bark roof. David Rose had never entered the place; no free counter meals were ever on offer, and fights seemed all too frequent for his liking.

  He nodded and tipped his hat to the woman, but a blank look was all she would offer. He turned to watch her bustle over the ground in her skirts. Like a giant lampshade she was. He saw her stop at the cottage and knock. He paused a moment. He saw the door open, and there she was. He stayed long enough to see that her visitor gave her no reason to smile.

  THE FOREMAN DRIVING SHEEP at Wombat Park remembered him.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Aye, David Rose. You were sayin’ I might come today for work?’

  The foreman grimaced and gave a regretful shake of the head.

  ‘I can’t say right at present there’s work, but I tell you what, if you pitch your tent by the yard, tomorrow morning I’ll see.’

  ‘No promises then?’

  ‘It’s the best that can be done. The men aren’t yet back from holiday, and if my reckoning’s right, one or both of them could well be in no fit state. But there’ll you be, all good and ready. You don’t drink, yourself?’

  ‘Not so’s I get drunk, I don’t.’

  The foreman nodded.

  ‘You’ll camp then?’

  Rose shrugged.

  ‘I might keep looking, if it’s all the same. I was wondrin’ if there might be picnic left-overs?’

  ‘I reckon enough to fill that huge bloody hat o’ yours!’ The foreman pointed to the house, an elegant weatherboard building at the end of the drive, its sunny eastern side luxuriously cool and dark under a long and low veranda.

  ‘Elsie will show you the kitchen.’

  ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you daren’t go?’ Mrs Pitman said, with irritation. ‘I run a business, and I pay your mother good money to wash. And now, I’m telling you to go fetch her.’

  Louisa Goulding sat in the corner, caught between wanting to tell the big horrible woman to go away and leave Maggie alone, or to slip through a gap in the boards and pray she left soon. Maggie, agitated to the point of a reddened face, was pleading. ‘I can’t go to my mother’s, not today.’

  ‘Why ever not!’ Mrs Pitman said. ‘What else do you have to do!’ She swept an exaggerated gaze across the spartan interior. ‘You seem to do nothing but walk back and forth into town all day.’

  Maggie drew in her breath, and put her face in her hands. Louisa went to her and put her arms across her back. Mrs Pitman scowled and hurrumphed.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  Maggie straightened, and with steady eye on her interrogator, said, ‘I can’t go — I won’t go — not when my stepfather’s there.’

  Joyce Pitman shook her head and blew out a loud breath as the door swung open and George entered. He nodded to Mrs Pitman and sensed the air.

  ‘Trouble?’ he said.

  Mrs Pitman deflected him.

  ‘Goodness no, Mr Stuart. I just came by to see if my husband might borrow a gimlet from you. A few screw holes need drilling. He’d need it only a day.’

  ‘He can have it two if need be, Mrs Pitman. I’m back at the mine tomorrow.’ He faced Maggie. ‘Night shift, Maggie. I start at four tomorrow afternoon, so I won’t be home till after midnight. Sorry, my love, but there it is.’

  SWEAT HAD MADE A feeding ground of David Rose’s back for a seething multitude of flies. All across it they settled and resettled, mopping the dirty fabric of his dark coat as he trudged along the Glenlyon road under a severe sun. His swag, the sum total of his possessions, pulled at his shoulder; his hat grew hot, and his boots swung heavy. But he was well used to the enterprise of tramping, and, by turning his mind from the discomfort, found the miles took care of themselves.

  As the afternoon wore on, with the heat and miles mounting, asking for work had become begging for work. The best anyone would do was give him a mug of tea, tell him he was too early for the hay, and that maybe he could try at Porcupine Ridge to the north where the grass was advanced by a week. Or, as one farmer, John Sherman, advised, there was George Cheesbrough in Glenlyon; maybe he was in need of help. Rose ate the remains of the picnic leftovers, a date scone, and set off in that direction.

  At five o’clock, when at last the day was on the turn, and in a mood of quiet resignation, he rapped on the front door of the Cheesbrough cottage. It promptly opened, and a kindly face appeared from the dim interior. The woman didn’t have to smile — there were good reasons for not doing so — but she did, and it disposed him to believe that prospects here were good, or else to accept rejection without protest.

  ‘Good evening, Missus,’ he said, raising his hat from its sweat-flattened seat. I’m told hereabouts that your husband might be hiring? I can tell him I’m an honest worker, strong, experienced with horses —’

  A dog loped from the side of the house, barking. The woman called it to her.

  ‘A good watchdog, is he?’ Rose said.

  The woman darted out and took the dog by the collar. She smiled, seemingly relieved to have averted an incident.

  ‘If you’ll wait here a moment, Mr … ?’

  ‘Rose, Ma’am, David Rose.’

  ‘Well, Mr Rose, I’ll fetch Mr Cheesbrough. I’m his wife.’ She smiled again and retreated with the dog into the house, leaving the door open. A good sign, he thought; a sign of trust.

  He let his swag slip to the ground, and felt his muscles and bones spring back with the relief. A nice place, this; a garden with shade and sun and pretty little blue birds scampering and twittering through it all. A faint breeze brought sweet and earthy smells of grass and manure. A cow lowed. He could live in such a place. Yes, with a good wife.

  SERGEANT TELFORD PICKED UP a pillow from the marital bed and pressed his face into it. What he expected to detect, he wasn’t sure; the smell of adultery maybe, for future reference. He scanned its floral surface for an errant black hair, to no avail. No matter, he’d have the evidence soon enough. Penelope had always underestimated him. He replaced the pillow and smoothed out the indentation. He stepped back and gazed dead-eyed at the bed. What greater humiliation was there than to be cuckolded, he wondered.
He felt anger should be rising within him, but he found it was well in check; hidden, in fact. He decided he would keep it that way, until an appropriate, satisfying course of action could be decided upon.

  DAVID ROSE NODDED ACROSS the kitchen table at his new boss. The evening was warm, and its light fast-fading. It felt good to have made a start already, feeding the cattle. Jane Cheesbrough had made them a scone and tea supper. She arrived now from the house to clear, the dog following.

  ‘He sleeps in here?’ Rose said.

  Cheesbrough chuckled. ‘You don’t like dogs?’ he said.

  ‘Some dogs.’

  ‘Well, your bed’s in here, the dog’s is under the tank. I’ll call you out at five-thirty tomorrow morning. There’ll be oats for breakfast, and a brew —’

  A man appeared at the door. His clothes were in need of changing, and his face of a wash. He removed his tattered hat, and held it flat against his chest.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, you’re the master of the house?’ this tramp said to Cheesbrough.

  ‘That I am, master and lord of the manor is me.’

  ‘Spare a traveller lodging for the night?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have no convenience,’ Cheesbrough said, with a gesture to Rose that all vacancies had been filled.

  The man wasn’t so easily put off.

  ‘Just the night, and I’ll be gone,’ he said.

  Cheesbrough grimaced, and shrugged that he was sorry but he’d already given his answer, unfavourable though it was.

  ‘But you ought to let a man stop. For just a night! It’s dark out now and —’

  David Rose took this as his cue. ‘We have got no convenience here, man!’ he said, with glowering look. The tramp looked at Rose a few moments, the set of his face making it plain that he would not be intimidated.

  ‘I’ll be square with you,’ he said to Rose, ‘you have no business to put in your word.’

  At this, Rose was on his feet. ‘Don’t I, now!’ he bellowed as his chair overturned and clattered to the stone floor. This, at last, was too much for the man at the door, and he vanished from that dark opening and into the night.