The Unfortunate Victim

by Greg Pyers

  The silence was broken by Drummond, who, noting that the time was approaching nine o’clock, decided that the inquest had reached its natural conclusion. He thanked George Stuart and bade him step down. And now, Drummond addressed the jury.

  ‘Mr. Foreman and gentlemen of the jury, you have heard and taken part in the examination of the witnesses of this inquest. That a most foul murder has been committed, you can have no doubt. That it was accompanied by violent attempts may be inferred from the position in which the deceased was found, and from the clear and intelligent medical evidence adduced. And hence the motive for the bloody deed would probably arise, either from the unfortunate victim’s recognition of her assailant, or his resolve to silence screams that threatened to rouse the neighbours. As the case now stands, I think it would not be advisable to limit the verdict to any one particular individual, while it is possible, though not probable, that proceedings may have to be taken hereafter against some person or persons hitherto unsuspected. And now, gentlemen, as I do not consider it necessary or advisable to make any further remarks, I will request you to retire, and frame your verdict.’

  The jury stood and filed out to an anteroom, and after a fifteen-minute deliberation, returned with a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown.

  14

  FRIDAY 6th JANUARY

  78 ELIZABETH STREET, MELBOURNE

  OTTO BERLINER HAD A fine head of hair, black and lustrous, with body enough to hold its form in a breeze. It was in good form now — parted arrow-straight to the side, and newly washed — as he opened today’s Victorian Government Gazette and read with more than casual interest an announcement at the very top of the front page:

  MURDER OF MRS STUART AT DAYLESFORD

  Two hundred pounds reward. Whereas between Ten and Twelve o’clock on the night of Wednesday, the 28th of December last, Margaret Stuart was murdered by some person or persons unknown, at her residence, situated in Albert Street, Daylesford: Notice is hereby given that a reward of Two hundred pounds will be paid by the Government to any person giving such information as shall lead to the apprehension and conviction of the murderer or murderers.

  It wasn’t the money — though he could always do with it, supporting his mother and sister in Sydney — it was the reference to his former stomping ground, as any reference to Daylesford caught his eye. He’d spent five years there, a long time to a man of twenty-nine, and though almost two had lapsed since he’d last applied his detecting acumen in that crime-bound town, the memory of his tenure there was vivid, if not fond. Rife goldfields lawlessness wasn’t the reason for his leaving, nor was it the manifest incompetence of his fellows; in Otto’s estimation, and regrettably, crime and police incompetence were characteristic of the entire colony. Rather, it was a peculiarity that had decided his hand.

  Unlike the Berlin winters of his early boyhood, a Daylesford winter was not especially cold, not by the standards of his country of birth. Snow was infrequent, and when it did come, was barely thicker than a heavy frost. But a Daylesford winter had a damp all its own. A lurking, dripping, mouldy damp, it was, one which in a frontier town of draughty wooden buildings was no friend to a susceptible pulmonary constitution. So, before the bitter chill of 1863 rolled in and installed itself in his chest, Otto packed up and took his delicate lungs to Melbourne. Although, he did consider that the ineptitude of his colleagues would have seen him leave soon enough.

  Otto had read about the murder of poor Maggie Stuart, and could imagine the excitement it provoked — not least among the police, who’d be running hither and thither, rounding up any number of suspects to improve the odds that they had the killer in custody. That oaf Telford would be leading the charge. And now, with this fat reward on the table, no man of swarthy complexion was safe. He might even be arrested himself! Such amateurs they were. There was no system to their detecting, no science, no initiative, no imagination. It was all supposition, speculation, and hope. Little wonder, when a man off the street could be made detective with a month’s training; Superintendent of Detectives Nicolson and that twit Chief Commissioner Standish had a lot to answer for. Well, Otto thought, looking about the first-floor room that would soon be his office, wait a few months till these premises are open for business as the country’s first ever Private Inquiry Office. Then, right here in the very heart of the city, the public will have a detective service on which they can rely.

  PEARSON THOMPSON ARRIVED AT the lock-up for a second visit to Serafino Bonetti. He wasn’t sure whether he admired his client or pitied him. It was something he himself would never countenance, of course — forego his freedom to protect a woman’s honour. But then, he conceded, the women of his acquaintance invariably had little honour to protect. Anyway, it was all a bit silly, really, this misplaced chivalry. And it was never a good idea to tempt fate with the law — not in this jurisdiction, at least.

  Constable Dawson turned the key, slid the bolt, and heaved open the door to let the lawyer through.

  ‘Good God, it’s dark in here. And so dank,’ Thompson said, to remind his client, albeit cumbersomely, that life on the other side of the wall was much preferable.

  ‘I get used to it,’ Bonetti said, which drew a sigh from his counsel. He presented the bunk as a host would the best chair in the house. ‘Please, Mr Thompson, be my guest.’

  ‘I’m happy standing, thank you, Mr Bonetti. Look, just how long do you intend to stay in here? Because you could be out within the hour.’

  ‘There is no hurry. It is too hot outside. I get food here. They will let me go soon. As soon as they find the killer.’

  ‘And what makes you think they’re looking? Mr Bonetti, listen to me, you’re the one charged with murder. The police searched your lodgings, and found blood on a shirt and a coat. And a vest.’

  ‘I told them, I killed a sheep. Tell me, how can you kill a sheep without spilling blood?’

  ‘They don’t believe you.’

  ‘Bah!’

  Neither man spoke. Voices carried through on the draught from the vent, their faintness amplifying the isolation. Thompson thanked God it wouldn’t be him left alone after this meeting.

  ‘Very peaceful, don’t you think?’ Bonetti said, as if contemplating taking up permanent residence.

  ‘Serafino, please. At least tell me the truth. I might be able to find a way around this that satisfies this most admirable, if misplaced, sense of gallantry of yours. Who was this woman?’

  Thompson’s eyes were accustomed now to the gloom, and he noticed the brightness in his client’s eyes.

  ‘Gallantry,’ Bonetti said. ‘Yes, gallantry. That is the word. Thank you. You understand me, I think, Pearson.’

  ‘To a degree. So come on, who —’

  ‘Mrs Telford. I was with Mrs Penelope Telford on the evening of December 28th.’

  ‘The sergeant’s wife?’

  ‘The sergeant’s wife.’

  ‘Lives just here?’ Thompson pointed north.

  Bonetti nodded like a schoolboy caught stealing biscuits.

  ‘Does Sergeant Telford know?’

  ‘He suspects, like all jealous husbands do.’

  Thompson took a moment to resist an urge to applaud the audacity of this man, or even to show his admiration in a sly grin. ‘So, is it gallantry or fear that has kept your mouth shut? You know, Serafino, it might occur to you that if your lover cares about you, she ought to come forward now.’

  ‘No! And you must not speak to her. I will stay here until they have caught David Rose.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool. David Rose is just another suspect. If the police reckon he’s their man, why are you still in here?’

  This logic seemed to come as a rude shock to Bonetti. His face fell with the realisation.

  Thompson pressed. ‘Who told you about David Rose? Has Mrs Telford been here?’

  ‘Of course
not. She sent a message.’

  ‘Don’t you see, man, she’s told you about Rose to keep you quiet. To give you reassurance. She thinks you might be about to talk.’

  ‘Never!’

  Thompson took a deep breath. This was familiar — a client intractably resistant to sound advice. There was nothing to be done, except for Thompson to be satisfied that he had done all he could.

  ‘My dear Serafino, your solicitor, Mr Geake, engaged me to speak on your behalf to the magistrate, to have you released. Yet I come here today, and, despite your revelation, you haven’t told me anything with which to plead your case. Am I to assume that you won’t tell me anything, ever, upon which I can act?’

  ‘When David Rose is arrested, you will speak to the magistrate. You will not speak to Mrs Telford. Now, I think our business for today is done.’

  SUNDAY 8th JANUARY

  78 ELIZABETH STREET, MELBOURNE

  THE TELEGRAM WAS DATED that same day, and had been delivered to Otto Berliner within an hour of its sending. Still in the employ of the Detective Department, he’d been tidying up loose ends on yet another forgery case — there were so many these days — when the lad from the Central Telegraph Office had arrived.

  Otto took the paper and in a moment read its single line, and in another decided on the response. He looked at the boy. ‘Come in, come in. Help yourself to a boiled sweet while I write my reply. In that jar on the desk.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’

  Otto wrote his answer, and handed it and payment for it to his visitor. As soon as the door was closed, Otto began to pack for Daylesford.

  SERGEANT LAWRENCE TELFORD HAD been making a study of his wife, watching for changes in her mood. But in the six days of Bonetti’s incarceration he could detect none; at least, none that an unhappy woman deprived of her young lover might reveal. She’d commented on and asked questions about Bonetti’s predicament with no more than the expected level of concern and frequency a caring woman might have. She expressed the hope that he would be proved innocent of the charge, and disbelief that that lovely young man was a killer. But there were no tears, no yearning, no anger. Married life had continued as before, at least that part of it she shared with her husband. Strange, Telford thought, this absence of passion. He could almost feel sorry for the dago, bravely protecting the honour of a woman who really didn’t give a damn. The man was a fool! And what a poor fool, to be charged with the slaying of Margaret Stuart. To think, his fornicating had put him in gaol for murder. Such justice! Such sweet serendipity!

  But was it possible that he and Penelope weren’t lovers? Had he condemned the man on an inkling?

  THE MAIL TRAIN TO Malmsbury departed from Melbourne’s Spencer Street Station at 7.15 p.m. From Malmsbury to Daylesford was by coach. Otto had made the journey to and from Daylesford many times, but never at this hour. Had Nicolson sent his telegram in the morning there would have been time enough to take the 12.15, to arrive in Daylesford at a civilised five o’clock in the afternoon. This later departure wouldn’t see him at his destination till one in the morning! And it would take more than an hour longer. Nicolson knew this, of course — Otto was certain. Nicolson would have had to swallow a mountain of ego in making this request. But Otto had replied that, yes, he would lend his expertise and local knowledge to the hunt for the suspect. Forcing him to the later train was Nicolson’s way of letting Otto know he wasn’t that important. So insufferably petty was that man!

  How long he would be in Daylesford, Otto didn’t know; Nicolson’s telegram was like so many telegrams: big on importance, light on detail. At least there was a name included for this ‘man with the tent’. If David Rose was still in the district, a day or two ought to suffice. If he was clear of it — and in nine days he could be well clear — only a day or two would be needed to ascertain as much.

  Otto closed his suitcase and placed it by the door. It was half-past noon now, which left a good five hours to do some useful research, allowing time to dine early and to pack cheese and bread, and a flask of water, for refreshment en route. It was his intention to arrive in Daylesford clear-eyed and informed. He would read again selected newspaper reports, including those of the coroner’s inquest. He would investigate further than any of his colleagues had, and become the authority on David Rose.

  At seven, Otto boarded his train, and with the sun obliterating the western view of the rail yards, decided the best option was a nap. He felt he’d earned one.

  MALMSBURY STATION WAS REACHED at 9.48 p.m., as per the timetable. Otto was impressed; in his book, punctuality and the keeping of promises were standards to live by. He alighted with his suitcase on the bluestone platform. With a thud, a canvas mail sack from the rear carriage joined him there, and the train pulled away, exhaling smoke and steam, and shattering the stillness with whistle blasts and squeals of metal. Imposing bluestone station buildings stood dark and forbidding across the tracks. On this side was a timber shelter for waiting passengers. Behind it, the coach was waiting, its six horses fidgeting and rattling their tack — eager, it seemed, to plunge headlong into the dark tunnel that was the forested road to Daylesford. Otto walked over. He pressed a hand against the rump of the lead bay, and was struck by a thought that the colony’s very prosperity depended on the power of that massive and noble muscle; at least where the railway didn’t reach.

  The driver appeared, and Otto presented his ticket and climbed aboard. A young man had preceded him, and was cushioning his head for sleep with a rolled-up garment pressed against the window frame. Otto took a seat opposite, facing the direction of travel, as he preferred. The night was clear and cool, and the moon bright. Frogs growled from beyond the reach of the station lamps. The coach swayed as the driver loaded the mail, and again as he climbed to his seat. Otto heard him exchange a goodnight with the stationmaster. From the shadows, a police trooper appeared, doing up his flies. He climbed up with the driver, and at ten, with a bark at the team, Cobb & Co began the three-hour drive to Daylesford.

  15

  MONDAY 9th JANUARY

  SERGEANT LAWRENCE TELFORD WAS the first to greet Otto. He found the detective at 7.00 a.m., emerging from the police quarters, his hair and dress impeccable.

  ‘Your accommodation was to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Precisely as expected, Sergeant Telford,’ Otto said. ‘Where shall I find Superintendent Nicolson? The sooner we get underway, the better.’

  If Telford had forgotten why he loathed this pompous little Prussian, this brief reacquaintance had been sufficient to remind him.

  ‘He’s on his morning walk. We’re to meet at the station at eight. If you come down there now, my wife has boiled some eggs for your breakfast.’

  ‘That’s very kind of her,’ Otto said, and was amused, for he knew Mrs Telford from Daylesford days, and he could be sure these eggs were not just country hospitality. Penelope was a woman with a wandering eye, and at first blush it might make no sense why the bovine sergeant should be paired with her. For Otto, it was proof of a favourite personal maxim: for everything in this world, however obscure or unlikely, there was an explanation. What better for such a woman than such a husband?

  At first meeting, Superintendent Charles Nicolson was a humourless marriage of dour visage and Scottish brogue, albeit a tall and athletic one. Those in his circle knew him as a policeman of great pluck and zeal. Otto himself had the highest regard for Nicolson’s great feat of daring when, as a cadet, he had caught the murderous Van Diemonians O’Connor and Bradley. But like him? Not much.

  Otto had only just returned from washing his hands when the man himself entered the room.

  ‘Berliner,’ he said, arm extended. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Pleasant journey?’

  They shook hands, the grip desultory. ‘As pleasant as midnight coach journeys can be, Sir.’

  Nicolson hadn’t wanted an answer; he’d already turned away to g
reet Superintendent Francis Reid and Detective Williams from Castlemaine, and Daylesford officers — Sergeant Telford and Trooper Henry Brady — as they filed in from the yard and took their seats around the table. Otto, like Nicolson, remained standing. A latecomer appeared at the door: Detective Thomas Walker. He caught Otto’s eye, and offered no glimmer of recognition, though they had shared the Daylesford posting for six months prior to Otto’s leaving. He took a seat, and Nicolson began.

  ‘Gentlemen, I think you will all know Detective Otto Berliner, if not personally from his time here, then surely by repute. Perhaps his best work in Daylesford was solving the Tibbets murder. So, I’m sure you’ll agree that his expertise will be of great help in our task.’

  Otto acknowledged the tribute with a slight nod of his head. Those seated remained unmoved.

  ‘So,’ Nicolson proceeded, ‘this wretched David Rose. Where the devil is he? Walker?’

  ‘Chees —’ was as far as Walker got, before Otto decided it was time to put his stamp on this meeting, and, he knew, deny Walker the initiative.

  ‘May I remind everyone that we are after a murderer, which may or may not prove to be David Rose.’

  All eyes turned to the upstart with the educated diction and impeccable hair, who, with this technicality, had usurped proceedings. Nicolson twitched, and from the exchanged glances among the others, Otto knew he was on his own — territory he found both familiar and reassuring.

  ‘I know it may seem to be stating the obvious, but it is worth reminding ourselves that if we are preoccupied with Rose — and my reading is that there is much preoccupation with Rose — we will blind ourselves to other possible suspects. David Rose is a suspect; we should not presume his guilt or innocence.’