The Unfortunate Victim

by Greg Pyers

  27

  FRIDAY 18th AUGUST

  THREE DAYS BEFORE THE DAY OF EXECUTION

  OTTO’S CHOICE OF ACCOMMODATION was made, he would say, because he knew the place to be comfortable and reasonable, with a good breakfast, and centrally located. That his former colleagues would see it as brazen and arrogant to take a room directly opposite their place of work had not been a consideration. But Walker’s bearding him in the Argus had made him glad his visit had caused such irritation to the police; it was a measure of how much they respected him, however much they might deny it. And if the police could be agitated by his presence, a murderer at large might equally be anxious. And anxious criminals, Otto knew, make mistakes.

  Yesterday morning, before his visit to Alice Latham, Otto had called in at the New Wombat Hill Company mine, just up behind the police camp, to leave a written message for George Stuart. This morning, at breakfast, he was handed a reply; George Stuart would be very pleased to speak to him, and was happy to meet at his former residence, the scene of his wife’s murder, at ten that morning. Otto arrived at a quarter to; he preferred to be first at any rendezvous. If at a restaurant, for example, it allowed him to choose the table, and even the chair in which he would sit. He might want to keep an eye on comings and goings of other patrons, or to gauge the state of mind of his interlocutor as he entered — whether confident, apprehensive, or otherwise. Otto was by a stump at the eastern side of the house when he saw George Stuart approaching along Albert Street. He’d never met the man, but he could tell by the determined, head-down step that the figure on the road was one keeping an appointment. As Stuart neared, Otto could see that he was thickset, round-shouldered, and not all that tall, as most miners seemed to be. He wondered idly whether the occupation selected the man or shaped him.

  Stuart left the road and clambered up the embankment to the sloping ground that led to the windowless rear of the house. Otto was standing adjacent to the chimney, which he had decided would be the subject of his opening question.

  ‘Hello, Mr Stuart,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. Detective Otto Berliner.’ He extended his hand, and Stuart took it. He was a little out of breath; he may have been of robust musculature, but many a miner’s barrel chest contained lungs scarred by the needles of quartz dust.

  ‘Not often a man is thanked for coming to his own home,’ he said, and Otto wasn’t sure this was meant with wry humour.

  ‘Chimney’s repaired, I see,’ Otto said.

  ‘I fixed the barrel good this time. They’re so sure the murderer knocked it over — the marks on the whitewash.’

  ‘You don’t agree?’

  Stuart shrugged. ‘I dunno. I don’t care much now. I do know my wife used a brush to whitewash with; that could have made the marks, easy.’

  ‘Do I assume, then, that you’re back living here?’

  ‘Not right at present, but will again soon enough. It’s been near eight months.’

  Here was a cue for Otto to express his condolences, but he let the moment pass; this wasn’t a comfort visit.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?’

  ‘Because you know they’ve got the wrong man. And you know I agree with you. It’s Joe Latham who killed my wife. That your reckoning?’

  ‘He’s a suspect.’

  Stuart scoffed at Otto’s equivocation.

  ‘Did Latham know you were going on night shift?

  ‘I didn’t tell him; Maggie may have mentioned it to her mother.’

  ‘Who did you tell?’

  ‘I told Maggie. Joyce Pitman was there, too, and Louisa.’

  ‘Your house doesn’t have a cess pit, does it?’

  ‘Not likely. There’s a shaft back away over there.’ He turned, and waggled a hand at the north. ‘We used that, as did others.’

  ‘The police search it?’

  ‘I don’t know how they could. There’d be forty foot down to twenty foot of shit.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Stuart grinned. ‘You’re the detective.’

  They walked across Albert Street to a goat track along a ridge, Otto following. To the right was Wombat Hill and the young township at its skirts; to the left, the reason there was a township: goldmines, with their shedding and poppet heads, and the scalped slopes and mullock cones of their creation. Not quite fifty yards from the house, the track descended the mining side of the ridge, and in another fifty yards there it was, fenced by a desultory square of bush-cut saplings: the deep hole into which the human waste of a neighbourhood was tipped.

  Stuart stopped back from the lip as Otto stepped forward to the peer into the blackness.

  ‘It was sunk eight year ago; barely a colour come out of it,’ Stuart said.

  ‘How many houses does this serve?’

  ‘Can’t rightly be sure. There’s mine, Rothery’s, Clayfield’s, and I’m sure Pitman drops a bucket from his brothel down there every once in a while.’

  Otto walked to the other side of the opening and peered over the barrier.

  ‘You’re not going down there?’ Stuart said. ‘There’s been eight months worth o’ shit since, you know.’

  Otto didn’t know what he might do. He found a stone and dropped it. There was a delay of about a second, before an impact that was as much a smack as a splash. He craned for a better view, reluctant to trust the uppermost railing with all his weight. The shaft was narrow, barely a yard wide, and protruding rock precluded a view beyond a few metres. Stuart watched, bemused.

  Otto stepped away, and with Stuart off-guard, said, ‘Maggie told you that David Rose said he thought she was a pretty woman, that he’d like to marry her. Why didn’t you speak with him about that?’

  ‘Why would I? She was pretty, for sure, and there were many a man who’d have taken her for a wife. If I spoke to them all I’d be doing nothing else!’

  While Stuart was amused by his observation, Otto kept his features straight.

  ‘Unlike these other men, Mr Stuart, Rose made his intentions plain, to a point that caused her to speak to you about him, to say that he frightened her.’

  ‘When she told him she was a married woman, he rightly made no more such remarks.’

  ‘Yes, but she was still frightened of him. Didn’t that concern you enough to seek him out and speak to him, if only to reassure Maggie?’

  Stuart wasn’t enjoying this interrogation. He shook his head and looked to the sky. Otto decided to prod a little more.

  ‘Did you like other men coveting your wife, Mr Stuart?’

  ‘What the fucking hell do you mean by that, Berliner?’ Stuart was breathing heavily now, his nostrils flaring and his jaw jutting.

  ‘It’s a natural thing for a man to be proud to have won a woman other men could only dream of having. Maggie was a prize, and she was yours.’

  Stuart advanced a few steps, to the opposite side of the barrier fence.

  ‘You’ve a strange way of doing detective work, Mr Berliner, accusing me.’

  ‘Of what am I accusing you?’

  Stuart averted his eyes.

  ‘Your wife was by nature a nervous, timid woman, wouldn’t you say, Mr Stuart?’

  Stuart nodded.

  ‘I daresay that having Joe Latham for a stepfather would account for that, would you agree?’

  ‘The man’s an animal.’

  ‘But I think you liked Maggie to be frightened. It’s why you threw stones down the chimney that evening. You knew that would upset her, but you liked the feeling of power, of that beautiful young woman depending on you for protection.’

  Stuart pushed off from the rail. He scratched his head, looked away and back to Otto, giving every impression that he was about to turn violent. Otto was undeterred. He pressed further.

  ‘Only she couldn’t depend on you, and now it is too late.’ He saw Stuart begin
to wilt. The widower dropped to his haunches and then to his knees, his face crumpling until it could not hold back the tears.

  A SIGN IN THE window of the London Portrait Gallery proclaimed, ‘All photographs produced in natural sunlight by the latest methods: no artificial light necessary.’

  Otto hadn’t taken any heed of it until now, on his return from his visit to the abandoned shaft with George Stuart. Tom Chuck asked what had raised his interest.

  ‘I was hoping that you might have means by which to illuminate a very dark and very deep hole. It would seem from your sign that probably you don’t.’

  ‘On the contrary, my friend. But it’s not a lamp — rather, a mirror.’

  ‘A mirror. Of course. Tom, you’re brilliant!’

  ‘And you’re very perceptive. But I confess it is no stroke of genius; I do use a mirror on occasion to reflect light into dark corners.’

  ‘This is a special photographic mirror? I wouldn’t want you to risk —’

  ‘No, no, no. Nothing special — just an everyday household mirror.’

  ‘All the same, I will tell you that should it be dropped, it will never be seen again.’

  After a soup-and-bread lunch in Chuck’s kitchen, and while the winter sun was out in a blue sky, the two men made a start for the shaft. Tom brought a ten-yard length of rope, which Otto considered sufficient for their first reconnoitre. As they walked the half-mile, Tom pressed Otto to share his thinking. Otto obliged, in his own circuitous way.

  ‘Tell me again, Tom, the items produced to find David Rose guilty.’

  ‘The pipe, the shirt —’

  ‘Yes, the shirt. Did Pearson Thompson remind the jury that no soot was found on it, or on the victim?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘The man’s not a complete fool then. What else?’

  ‘Hair samples, whiskers, spermato-whatever …’

  Otto stopped and turned to his partner. ‘What then, is missing from this list?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Sorry, Otto, I’m no detective. I —’

  ‘A clue, Tom. The victim’s throat was cut.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. A knife. The murder weapon.’

  ‘Very good, Tom! I can see where your boy gets his detecting ability,’ Otto turned and resumed the mission. ‘Not from you.’

  They reached the shaft with the sun low in the north, an angle Otto reckoned most efficacious in collecting light for reflecting. With a heel, he removed two of the loosest of the sapling railings, laid them parallel across the mouth of the abyss, and secured them with the rope to posts of the barrier fence.

  Tom was puzzled. ‘Are you going down there —?’

  ‘I just want to see what is to be seen.’

  ‘A knife, you mean? Pardon my scepticism, Otto, but isn’t that just a little optimistic?’

  ‘Tom, I prefer “thorough” to “optimistic”. My former colleagues are often optimistic, but seldom, if ever, thorough. I don’t expect to see a knife, but think about this: if you were struggling to hold down your victim while you cut her throat, you would not end up with specks or spots of blood on you; you would be drenched in it. You would want to discard these clothes. And the knife, of course.’

  ‘But here? Who would —? Oh, I see. Someone who knew of this shaft.’

  ‘Precisely. And not many would know — certainly not well enough to find it in the dark.’

  ‘Someone who lives nearby, you mean?’

  ‘Or once did.’

  ‘Joe Latham lived in George Stuart’s house, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did. He built the place.’

  ‘Don’t you think that if clothes, or a knife, were thrown down there, they would have sunk out of sight?’

  ‘Very likely, but how can we be sure? So much of solving crime is in the discovery of the unexpected. Now, enough talk. I’m going to sit astride these timbers and edge out over the shaft. When I am ready, you will hand me the mirror.’ Otto climbed through the railings and mounted the boards, as if on a wooden horse.

  ‘That is a hellish smell coming from down there,’ Tom said. ‘You’re not afraid there might be toxic vapours?’

  ‘It could be worse; it might be summer. Can you imagine the flies?’ Immediately, he looked up at Tom. ‘Forgive me, Tom. I wasn’t thinking.’

  With a shake of his head, Tom absolved him.

  Otto crabbed forward. ‘Actually, I’m more concerned about these timbers. Can you hear the creaking?’

  ‘Please, Otto, let us not joke. If you fall, I’ll have to fetch you out.’

  Otto was in position. ‘Now, the mirror.’

  Tom reached across. His mirror was heavy; in its wood frame it had the dimensions of a washboard. Otto took it and steadied it on the timber between his thighs.

  ‘Now, I stand the mirror up, like so, towards the sun …’ Light flickered over lichen-covered rock that wouldn’t normally see sun till midsummer. ‘Now, I tilt it down …’ The beam slid down the uneven face of the shaft.

  Tom watched, and decided that all this thoroughness of Otto’s came at the cost of rather a lot of effort, and very little promise of success —

  ‘Ah-ha!’

  ‘A knife?’

  ‘No. It could be clothing. It is impossible to tell from here.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Only twenty feet. It’s caught up on a rock or a timber, or something. It is fabric, I think. A bundle, covered in excrement, of course.’

  ‘So,’ Tom said, ‘I suppose you’re going down there.’

  ‘I see no alternative. Unless?’ He looked at Tom, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Then there is no alternative.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, of course.’

  OTTO AND TOM RETURNED to the shaft at five o’clock, with twenty yards of rope and a kerosene lamp. Otto had suggested that young Henry, being a lightweight, might be the best suited for the retrieval operation. It was a suggestion his father was never going to entertain.

  ‘Yes, Otto, what could be more loving than lowering my only child into a cess pit to retrieve the blood-soaked clothes of a murderer?’

  ‘He did say he wants to be a detective.’

  Tom was appalled, and looked it.

  ‘Maybe you could explain that to my wife.’

  Otto slapped Tom’s arm. ‘As if I would send your boy on such an errand. Utter madness! Now, let us get to work.’

  ‘You’re very exuberant, I must say, for what you’re about to do.’

  ‘Yes, I am excited, Tom. I feel like a hound picking up the scent of a fox.’

  With half an hour of sun remaining, and cloud increasing, light conditions at the shaft were gloomy. But as it was customary to empty the night soil in the morning, now was the time to mount this salvage operation. Otto removed his belt, hung the lamp from it, and rebuckled, forming a loop that would be his seat, with the lamp below illuminating the way. He tied one end of the rope to the loop, and wrapped the other once around the top rail and handed it to Tom.

  ‘Take this back until it is taut,’ Otto said.

  When Tom was in position, Otto ventured out on the rails still positioned over the drop.

  ‘You’ve done this before, I assume?’ Tom said.

  ‘Climb down into a cess pit?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s time to concentrate, Tom. Brace yourself. Are you ready? Here I go.’

  Otto stepped off into the void. But the only movement was a gentle swing that took Otto’s feet out and back to the rails they had just left.

  ‘You’ll have to let it out a little, Tom —’

  Otto was suddenly six yards lower, and swinging hard into the walls of the shaft. His feet kicked soil and rocks free to drop into the stinking mire below.

  �
��Otto! Are you all right?’

  Tom was at the mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry, Otto, it got away from me. I really don’t think this was a good idea.’

  With his stomach still in his throat and his pulse knocking in his ears, Otto wasn’t disposed to speak. He felt the rope, under the strain as stiff as a steel rod, and creaking as it swung gently. The belt cut into his hips and buttocks.

  ‘Otto?’

  Otto hinged his head upwards. He could just see the top of Tom’s head in silhouette. ‘Still here!’

  ‘Oh, thank God! I’ve tied the rope. I’m going for a horse, to get you out of there. I won’t be long. Try to stay calm.’

  And so Otto was left alone on his rope, hanging still but for a gentle twisting. His breathing had calmed, his heart no longer thumped, and he could believe that he was in no danger of falling. In fact, to look on the bright side, he was almost in the place he was intending to be, albeit coming to it rather sooner than he had expected. He stole a look below, to the burning lamp and the illuminated wall around it, and the bundle that had snagged there. If he reached out with his foot, he could just about touch the dirty fabric, and was almost close enough, if he dared, to reach out and hook his foot under it. He thought again. Ten or more feet below, the foul, black contents of the shaft lay glistening. If the bundle fell, this enterprise would come to naught. He would just have to bear the discomfort a little while longer, and on Tom’s return he would simply be lowered a yard and a half, and the prize would be his —

  A pulse passed through the rope to Otto’s hands. And another. He looked up. A shadow crossed the opening.

  ‘Tom?’

  His own voice was the last sound Otto heard before he crashed into the muffled and unfathomed deep below.

  Quickly he was at the surface, his lips pursed tightly against the filth, and his arms flailing for a rocky protrusion or an embedded iron spike to which he could cling. The rope, having been his lifeline, now threatened to drown him. It writhed around and over Otto, entangling his arms and pulling at his neck. Objects unknown brushed by his hands and cheeks — some solid, some disintegrating on contact. His kicking disturbed lower strata of the putrescence, and bubbles boiled to the surface, where they burst and released their acrid contents. Otto felt himself succumbing to the foetid air, and entertained the possibility that he might die there, like a fly in a pitcher plant, his tissues slowly liquefying and adding to the foul solution. God knows what it was doing to his delicate lungs. And then he saw his salvation — a cleft in the rock. He reached high, slid a hand in, and there he hung, like a gibbon on a vine, to rest a while and to wonder whether the rope had snapped or had been cut.