by Greg Pyers
9
WEDNESDAY 28th DECEMBER
THE DAY OF THE MURDER
AT AROUND THREE, WHEN his wife had settled in to her cooking, John Pitman thought it a good time to return George Stuart’s gimlet. Why she didn’t ask him first, he had no idea; he had one of his own. He slipped out beyond his woodshed and along the goat track to his neighbours, fifty-odd yards to the west. A sturdy breeze was up, and undergarments, both male and female — and a dress he recognised — were flapping loudly on the Stuarts’ line, strung across his way. He ducked beneath the washing, and the cottage stood before him across five yards of patchy ground. The emptiness of the yard was stark, unexpected, and a sudden feeling of apprehension and disappointment halted him. The breeze lulled, and sounds came from within the building. He stole closer, and heard the rhythmic creaking so familiar to him. He pressed an ear to the wall, straining to hear Maggie’s whimpers over the scraping and grunting …
It stopped.
Pitman hurried away, watched by his wife from inside the woodshed.
DAVID ROSE TOOK A swig from his water bottle and wiped his mouth. He took out a pipe and lit it. Strange, he thought, the same hot sun — foe yesterday, yet friend today. What a difference work made to a man’s view of things. He looked about, across yellow fields to green forest and to blue sky. He could believe he owned it all and that no one could deny him. Yes, it was grand to be out under the sun today. He picked up the scythe and swept it through the sward, hearing the swish of blade, the fall of grass, and the click and whirr of insects disturbed. A week of this good life he’d been promised, with meals, a soft bed, and four shillings a day. A good man, Cheesbrough; a good woman, his missus.
ALICE LATHAM HAD WORN many blackened eyes in her years with Joe, and this one wasn’t the worst, at least not to look at. But as the latest in the series, it attested most to a helplessness that was beyond remediation. At least, that’s what others might think. She prayed only that Maggie wasn’t one of them. She looked at herself in the mirror that swivelled on the dresser in the bedroom, and noted that the colour had faded since Monday night. Doesn’t Maggie know the risk I took for her, defyin’ Joe like that? George Stuart, she was certain, would never raise a hand in anger to her beautiful daughter. With George, Maggie was out of harm’s way —
The outside door squealed. Boots rang on the boards. Alice turned away from the mirror and busied herself with the bedding.
‘Still in here?’ Joe said.
‘Just tidying. I know how you like the bedclothes straight.’
‘You know there’s no bread for supper, or butter?’
‘Don’t worry yourself, Joe. I’m going to shop this afternoon.’
‘And plannin’ to see Maggie, no doubt.’
Alice stood up from the bed. She looked at her husband square-on, if not a little to the side, to present his recent handiwork to greatest effect. The man was capable of some shame.
‘I had no plans to, Joe, but now that you remind me, I might well make some,’ she said, with a defiance that exhilarated her.
‘Whatever you like,’ Joe said. ‘Just don’t be out so late our girls go hungry.’
‘When have I ever let our girls go hungry, Joe?’
She was following him now, demanding answers, but he was smiling at her, compounding her exasperation.
‘When, Joe?’
He sat at the table, smirking as she railed as never before.
‘How dare you say such things. I know why you do, because I dared to allow my own daughter to be happy, to be safe from you, you …’
He sprang out a hand and caught her wrist, and twisted it so that she had to arch her back awkwardly.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What am I?’
‘Please, Joe, you’re hurtin’ me. Please.’
He let go. She left the room.
‘Go and see Maggie all you want. I don’t give a tinker’s. Just don’t bring that whore here.’
MAGGIE FINISHED HER SHOPPING at Mills’ family grocer late afternoon and began for home. First day back after the holidays was as busy as the last day before, and she regretted not making an earlier start. Still, she was done now, and thought to get home to cook and eat before the sun set on this evening that she would be alone, now that George was on night shift. Louisa had said she’d come over, so there was that to look forward to.
Briskly, Maggie made her way down Vincent Street, and was on the point of turning into Albert Street, for the half-mile home, when she collided with a woman whose face she recognised, but for which she had no name.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ Maggie said.
A can of fish had been jolted from her basket, and she knelt to retrieve it from the gravel.
‘You’re Margaret Stuart,’ Maria Molesworth said.
Maggie stood. ‘Yes.’
This woman seemed tense, as if a wrong had been done her and that Maggie was responsible for. But she wasn’t elaborating, so Maggie smiled feebly and made to continue her journey.
‘Do you know me?’ Maria said.
Maggie looked back, and shook her head. This was already very discomforting.
‘I’m sorry, no I don’t. I have seen you before, I’m sure —’
‘My name’s Maria. I work at Pitman’s. You would have seen me when you go by.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Maggie said, smiling and nodding as if this might ease the apparent tension. ‘I have seen you, Maria.’
‘Your husband knows me ’n’all — George Stuart.’
At this, Maggie abandoned any belief that this was simply a civil exchange between passers-by. Why was she saying this? To upset her? Because it did upset her. And if it continued, it would anger her.
‘I have to go home now, please, Maria.’
‘Don’t you go walking off with your nose in the air.’ She pressed a hand to Maggie’s chest.
‘Please, Maria. I have no quarrel with you. I want to go home.’
Maria suddenly seemed to have decided enough was enough. She removed her hand and walked away into Vincent Street.
ON THAT LONELY EVENING, Louisa Goulding appeared to Maggie like an angel from heaven. She welcomed her young companion with a hug and a wide smile.
‘Some broth? It’s vegetable.’
Outside, a pot was resting on the bricks by the cooking fire. Maggie ladled them each a mug, and tore pieces from a loaf. Stumps served as seats for their dining. At a little after five, the sky was still blue, but the heat had been seen off by a cool and intrusive breeze from the south-west.
‘The man’s gone,’ Louisa noted, nodding to where David Rose’s tent had been.
‘Where, I wonder,’ Maggie said, idly. With an exchange of smiles, both agreed this was something to be glad of, and that there would be no more mention of him.
‘I brought my hymn book, Maggie.’
‘Then we shall sing. Inside, though — we don’t want to trouble the neighbours!’
They put their mugs down and walked to the door, Louisa leading. Behind her, a shape among the stones and untidy grasses caught Maggie’s eye. She bent down and picked up a clay pipe. It had a curved stem and a large bowl, chipped on the inside. It didn’t look much like any pipe George smoked, but, just in case, she took it inside and placed it on the meat safe.
SERGEANT TELFORD STOOD AT his back door, a mug of tea in hand, watching his hired Italian builder nail a final ceiling joist into place. Sweat plastered the young man’s shirt to his back, and dripped from the thick, black hair he kept swept back from his face with occasional rakes of his slender hands. Telford found it impossible to behold the view before him without thinking of his wife’s legs splayed beneath that lean, muscled body.
Bonetti looked up and smiled. Telford was more than a little irritated to note that he did so without the slightest sign of apprehension.
‘I hope y
ou’ll be pleased with this new room, Sir,’ he said.
‘Yes. I’m sure I will. You’ve done a good job,’ Telford said, and in that moment hating himself for not just throwing the greasy little bastard into the street. But he knew there was a better way.
‘Grazie, Sir. Well, if you don’t mind, that should do me for today. I leave you now, for you and your wife to have dinner.’ He began to gather his tools.
‘Please, Mr Bonetti, join us, why don’t you? I’ve got to eat early — I’m on duty tonight.’
Serafino hesitated. He began to make noises that unfortunately he was unable to stay, but Telford wasn’t waiting for an answer. If he couldn’t bring himself to do violence, he could at least make the man squirm. And Penelope, too.
‘Penny, dear,’ he called to the kitchen, ‘I’ve asked Mr Bonetti to dine with us, to thank him for all he’s done. We’ve plenty to spare?’
Mrs Telford was promptly at the door. If her husband was hoping to make her uncomfortable, he was to be greatly disappointed, for she showed no sign of it. She even embraced the suggestion.
‘How thoughtful of you, Lawrence,’ she said, and pecked him on the cheek. ‘He has done such a wonderful job; I’m completely satisfied with his work. You’ll stay then, Mr Bonetti?’
‘Grazie, Mrs Telford, but I do have an appointment.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ Penelope said with a frown. ‘We shall have to arrange another time.’
‘You’re very kind, Mrs Telford,’ Serafino said.
‘My pleasure, Mr Bonetti.’
Telford looked at these two. Utterly shameless, they were — not even a blush or an awkward glance. They didn’t care what he thought, let alone whether he knew. But in the end, they would pay; he would see to that.
AT AROUND 9.00 P.M., a firm knock rattled the door.
‘Louisa, are you there?’
The voice, a man’s, startled Maggie. She’d been resting with her head on her hands on the table. She sat up. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Are you ready to go home? It’s time to go to bed.’
‘It’s my uncle,’ Louisa said. She collected her hymn book and hugged her friend. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Yes, tomorrow. That would be good. Goodnight then, Louisa. Sleep well.’
Louisa opened the door. Through the gap, Maggie and William Rothery smiled and exchanged goodnights, and with a brief look and a wave back, Louisa disappeared with her uncle into the dark.
Maggie locked the door and stood there, stricken by the sudden emptiness in the room. She heard the wind across the roof and in the trees, and saw it in the flicker of the candle, and decided: she would go to bed. She lit a candle from the one on the table, and, with a hand to shield the flame, crept through into the bedroom and closed the door. With her light placed on the bedside table, she undressed, folding her skirt and blouse and placing them neatly on the trunk. She put her brooch on the dresser. She’d already taken off her boots, but left her stockings on for the chill. George had suggested that.
Maggie retrieved her chemise from under a pillow, pulled it on over her head, climbed onto the bed, and edged herself between the cool sheets, taking care not to untuck them. She settled, lying on her side, with the bedclothes tight and drawn up close. At last, by lying still, the creaking of the bed timbers was stayed; she could hear nothing now, bar the occasional rattle of the outside door before the gusts. At that moment, she felt safe. She licked a fingertip, ventured an arm from the covers, and snuffed out the flame. Light from the gap beneath the door waxed and waned in the draughts. Through the window, a star appeared. She gazed at it, quietened by its constancy amid all the turbulence. She could believe that it was her star, watching over her. George’ll be home soon, she told herself, and closed her eyes …
It must have been on the cusp of sleep that Maggie was disturbed by the rattling door. She listened … It shook, hard, as if taken by the handle. She breathed into the still space beneath the blankets. There’s no one there, there’s no one there, she whispered to herself. It’s the wind …
The shaking stopped. She held her breath, straining to hear. She turned on her back. She sat up. The bed creaked. The wind soughed and the door rattled. Something blew over outside; there was a hollow clatter, like wood striking rock. It was the barrel on the chimney. A fragment of rock bounced off the hearth and skittered across the floor in the other room. A shower of smaller stones and sand now … Maggie’s breathing was rapid and shallow; her heart thumped in her neck. The wind whistled, and branches swished and tossed. The door rattled again.
She had known other moments of terror, when she could let her brain go numb to the senses, when she could shut out the smell of Joe Latham’s tobacco breath, the rough glide of his callused hand … She got out of bed and stood in the darkness. The sounds from the other room had stopped. There are tricks the wind can play, she thought, in the dark —
The front door rattled.
‘George? Is that you?’ she said.
10
9.00 A.M. THURSDAY 29th DECEMBER
CONSTABLE IRWIN LEFT THE Stuart cottage with his package of evidence, and plunged into the milling, murmuring crowd. It was already of nuisance proportions, and was becoming all the more so by the minute as it continued to swell. Speculation was rife, and in some quarters not principally over who had perpetrated this monstrous act, but rather why the victim should have found herself in such mortal danger. That she was violated had already been decided among the crowd; she was a pretty young woman, after all, and robbery could hardly have been a motive, as word was that nothing had been stolen.
Sergeant Telford detailed three constables to keep the spectators well back, with orders to arrest transgressors. Another policeman, Constable Mansell, was on guard at the cottage front door, where through the throng a man lugging unwieldy equipment had just arrived. He introduced himself with a hand extended from between the legs of a tripod.
‘Good morning, Constable. Thomas Chuck — London Portrait Gallery. I’m here on the order of Detective Walker. On account of the coroner —’
‘Being away. Yes, yes, Mr Chuck, you are expected. The deceased is through there.’
The sentry made room. Chuck gathered his apparatus and hefted it across the threshold.
REVEREND TAYLOR HAD RISEN early and slipped away from a back room at Pitman’s with a nod of thanks to the proprietor for his discretion. He passed unseen by George Stuart, seated at the bar and throwing down a double whisky. Stuart had just come from Detective Walker, who’d checked with the mine and so cleared him of suspicion — a development that brought him some guilty comfort.
‘That’s on the house,’ John Pitman said. ‘Another?’
Stuart didn’t reply. Pitman replenished the glass.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he said, as Mrs Pitman arrived with a basket of wet clothes. She put it down and pulled her husband away.
‘He shouldn’t be here, drinking. It’ll do him no good,’ she said in coarse whisper.
But Pitman wasn’t quite done. He put a hand on Stuart’s shoulder. ‘She was a beautiful young woman, your Maggie —’
The front door creaked. Pitman looked up, to see a man there.
‘She should never have married you, Stuart.’
Stuart spun around; Joe Latham had announced himself in his coarse cockney. He stood there in the doorway as if to gauge the odds before committing further to the room. But Stuart was already on his feet and striding towards the short man, jaw set and fists tight. Latham didn’t flinch. Stuart pulled up. Pitman appealed to reason and self-restraint.
‘Now listen, fighting won’t do no good.’
‘Go on, Stuart,’ Latham taunted, ‘but I know you’re not man enough.’
Stuart was blowing hard, unsure of whether to attack or leave. Latham scoffed at the indecision.
‘I alw
ays said you were wrong for my girl. I never meant for you to have her.’
At this, Stuart found voice, and his fists. He leapt at Latham, ‘You cut her throat, you bastard!’
They pushed and twisted in each other’s grip. Latham broke free and landed a blow on Stuart’s cheek. Pitman was onto them to spare furniture and glassware. He tried to pull Latham away, but it was Mrs Pitman who proved effective. She bustled over and inserted herself into the fracas.
‘For the love of God!’ she cried, glaring at one and then the other. ‘Never have I seen the like of it. Your own wife, your own step-daughter, lying up there like that, all exposed, violated, drenched in her own blood —’
Pitman pulled her away. The combatants straightened themselves. George Stuart collected his hat and departed.
11
FRIDAY 30th DECEMBER
WILLIAM STANBRIDGE LIVED BY a maxim of taking the initiative. Whether it was to emigrate at the age of twenty-four from England, to invest in property and mining, or even to live among the Boorong Aboriginal people to record their astronomical knowledge, he was never one to wait for instructions, permission, or approval. And so it was that now, as a Daylesford magistrate with a young woman viciously murdered within his jurisdiction, he wasn’t about to change a life’s habit just because the coroner happened to be out of town. No, Stanbridge decided that it fell to him to take charge, and at ten in the morning of Friday December 30th, at Daylesford Court House, before a packed public gallery, he began his magisterial inquiry into the death of Margaret Stuart. Joining Stanbridge on the bench were Mayor George Patterson and local solicitor Joseph Dunne. Representing the police was Superintendent Francis Reid from Castlemaine. Before proceedings could begin, Reid rose to seek leave to express an opinion.
‘Your Worship, while I am prepared to leave this case in the hands of the bench, I feel that as this is a case of such importance, and seeing as the coroner has already taken the initiative and ordered a post-mortem examination, and that I do have some doubts as to your power, Sir, with respect, to empanel a jury —’
‘Come to the point, Superintendent,’ Stanbridge urged.
