by Greg Pyers
‘I can tell you I didn’t stock the knife before January or February last year. In any case, I had only four. I bought them from a trader up from Melbourne. They were excellent quality; you’ll see there, it says made in England on the blade? Sheffield. This photograph is so detailed. Did Thomas Chuck —?’
‘Can you remember who bought the knives?’
‘Good heavens, no! Except for one. I remember because it was a woman. Not many women come into this shop, though Maggie Stuart did to buy her husband tobacco, just a day or two before — anyway, certainly very few women, none in fact, come in to buy a knife, at least not like this knife. Except there was this one woman I remember, probably about a year ago now.’
‘You know this woman?’
‘I didn’t, but I’m sure I’d seen her in town. She was the kind of woman a man’d notice — attractive in a certain way, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t know what you mean.’
‘She was, you know …’ Kreckler made cups of his hands.
‘Big-bosomed?’
‘Yes. And very alluring. Is that the word I’m after?’
‘Mr Kreckler, I haven’t all day, so if you could —’
‘Of course. I remember seeing her next when she was a witness at the inquest. That’s when I found out who she was: Maria Molesworth. She works at Pitman’s, a cheap little grog shanty in Albert Street.’ He smiled, the remembering of the lady’s name seemingly assuaging his horror that he might have sold her a murder weapon. And then he was aghast once again.
‘You don’t think she —?’
‘Thank you, Mr Kreckler. You have been helpful. I would direct you to keep this meeting strictly confidential.’
Kreckler nodded. ‘You have my word.’
Otto was certain that Kreckler’s word counted for very little, but nodded his acceptance of it. He gathered the photograph and left. This talk had borne ripe fruit, but there was still so much to do, and only two days in which to do it. He’d been thinking about Tom and his eagerness to help. Well, Otto reckoned, now it was time to put their two heads together.
WITH HIS WOOD-CARRYING DONE and the turnkey’s back turned, David Rose tore off the last rags of his calico shirt and trousers, and stuffed them into the firebox. He waited there, naked, before the boiling pots of the evening stew, enjoying the heat on his pallid skin, and a feeling akin to liberation.
‘What the hell! Rose! What are you — Jesus Christ almighty!’ The turnkey stomped across the stone floor and tossed the prisoner a small tarpaulin. ‘Cover yourself, you mad fuckin’ piece of shit. There are women through there!’ he bawled. ‘Fuck you; you’re going back to your cell. No stew!’
At the foot of the stone steps up to the ground floor, the condemned man was detoured with a push to the doorway of the two solitary cells.
‘Looky here; both free. The governor might even give you a choice, a special treat, like.’
It was for answering back that Rose had done a 48-hour stretch in solitary — in Castlemaine, that is. At seventeen, in Tasmania, he did three days in one of these: not enough width to lie down, food served at odd times to disorientate the prisoner, and not the dimmest hint of light.
‘Like your grave, Rose. All the darkness, and you’ll even be standing up. But, eh, chin up, your corpse’ll be facing out staring at them wide-open spaces. Forever.’ The turnkey shook his head and chuckled. ‘They think of everything.’
29
AT MID-AFTERNOON, AFTER A sandwich and coffee at the Argus, Otto was making his way back to Chuck’s. He turned the corner from busy Vincent Street to quiet Albert Street, and was just outside the London Portrait Gallery when he felt a hand clutch at his elbow.
‘Detective Berliner?’
Otto was looking at a woman in her mid-thirties, attractive in a regular way, with a kind, if troubled, look.
‘Good afternoon, Sir. I’m Mrs Spinks, Sarah Spinks,’ she said, a little tentative about making his acquaintance. Otto recalled the name.
‘How do you do, Mrs Spinks,’ he said, and doffed his hat.
She suddenly seemed more certain of herself after Otto’s reception. ‘You would know that I gave testimony at David Rose’s trial?’
‘I do know that. I also know that you were very concerned about how your testimony was presented by the prosecution.’
On hearing this, Sarah’s whole being seemed to loosen, as if a great knot within her had been undone. Her eyes brightened with the confidence of one who knows she is being understood.
‘It has troubled me so, Mr Berliner. See, it was I who first alerted the police to David Rose. Did you know that? It was my report that began the hunt for that man.’ She shook her head, and Otto could see that she must have suffered great torment these past months.
‘I do understand, Mrs Spinks. You see, it was I who led the search for Mr Rose. So, it seems, we share —’
‘Guilt?’
Otto was hesitant, but nodded. ‘Yes, I think you might call it guilt, if not responsibility.’
Sarah Spinks touched him on the arm. ‘It’s why you’re here, to find the murderer?’
‘I’m trying to, Mrs Spinks. But I have barely two days to do it in, and as my investigations are not officially sanctioned, I have quite a challenge. Now, you were at the Theatre Royal that night?’
‘I was. On the way home, I saw a man not far from Margaret Stuart’s cottage. I thought it may have been the man I saw with my children — David Rose, though I didn’t know his name then — which is why I went to the police. But I wouldn’t swear that it was him, and I said so at the inquest and at the trial. Now I wish I’d never said anything, because all that business about him walking in from Glenlyon would not be believed by the jury unless they took my words as proof that David Rose had walked all that way.’
Otto guided Sarah to the outer edge of the veranda; foot traffic had picked up, and this discussion was not for general airing.
‘If you can recall anything else from that night —’
‘Believe me, Detective, I have gone over and over that evening. I was with Angus Miller, and I have discussed it with him until I’m sure he is heartily sick to death of it.’
‘What do you know of Maria Molesworth?’
The abruptness of the question threw Sarah, as Otto intended. Not that Otto had any suspicions about Sarah Spinks; he just found that much can be revealed by the unexpected question, simply in a look. For example, was Sarah surprised that Maria would be mentioned? Did she like Maria, dislike her, or feel indifferent about her? It seemed from his reading of Sarah’s mild response that she and Maria were not acquainted; if there was any bewilderment on Sarah’s face, it was because a woman might be of interest to Otto in his murder investigations.
‘I don’t know Maria,’ Sarah said. ‘Except that she works for the Pitmans. I saw Maria and Mrs Pitman were at Christy’s Minstrels show together on the night of the murder.’
Otto nodded. Nothing new here. But then came a delayed revelation.
‘I saw Maria talking to Maggie in the street.’
‘When and where was this?’
‘Late afternoon, the day Maggie was — they were just over there.’ Sarah pointed down Albert Street. ‘It was for less than a minute. I was in Gelliner’s, across the street … And now that I think of it, Maria Molesworth left the theatre early that night. Yes, near the end of the first part. But she may have just been going to the ladies’.
‘Was she there after the performance?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t looking for her. I didn’t see Mrs Pitman after the show, either. Mr Berliner, your interest makes it impossible for me not to ask — does Maria Molesworth have something to do with the murder?’
‘Mrs Spinks, I’m simply making investigations about the events of that night. And you’ve been much help. If you can think of anything els
e, I can be reached here, at the London Portrait Gallery any time. Leave a message if I’m not in.’
‘I will. Thank you, Mr Berliner. I can’t tell you how much better I feel for your being here.’
Otto tipped his hat, and with a smile bade Sarah Spinks a good day. He entered Chuck’s premises to find the owner in the kitchen, sporting a blackened eye and a fat, bleeding lip. Adeline was attending to the wounds.
‘My God! What on earth —?’
‘Good afternoon, Otto,’ Tom said, holding steady for his wife to dab at the blood.
‘I told him not to go,’ Adeline said.
‘Go where, for heaven’s sake? You look as though you’ve been in a drunken brawl.’
‘Tell him, Tom.’
Tom sighed. ‘I paid a visit to Mrs Latham,’ he said, with a wince at the sting of carbolic.
‘What! Why the devil would you do that?’
‘I suspected you might not be happy about it. But only after the visit was a failure. Beforehand, I thought I was — ow! — I thought I was helping.’
‘Nearly done, my poor darling,’ Adeline said.
‘What did I say about impatience, Tom?’
‘Yes, Otto. You were right. I was stupid. Please accept my apology.’
Adeline finished her first-aid work, and Tom was free to sit up. Otto sat expectantly, prompting Tom to explain himself.
‘Look, I wanted to encourage Alice Latham to speak up against her husband. He beats her, you know, and he beat his own stepdaughter. He threatened to cut her throat, for heaven’s sake! George Stuart says Latham is the murderer; even Pearson Thompson thinks he is. But because his wife gave him an alibi, that’s the end of the matter. Don’t you see? She is the weak link, the one standing in the way of justice for her own daughter, for David Rose, for all of us.’
‘Why would she lie? Why would she say Latham was home with her that night?’
Tom was on his feet. ‘I don’t know. She’s afraid of him? She needs his support? You know, at the funeral, I heard she made such a show of praying that her daughter’s killer was brought to justice, it had to be directed at her husband.’
This, to Otto, was an assumption too far. It was the kind of assumption that Tom had questioned at the trial.
‘So what happened on your visit?’ he said. ‘I assume Joe came home and didn’t approve of your being there?’
‘Of course, and like the lunatic he is, he soon turned violent. And then he mentioned you, and then he good as admitted his guilt.’
‘Oh?’
‘He let slip something. He said he’d been looking forward to pouring — and dear, please pardon my language — a bucket of shit on your head.’
‘Well, there’s one mystery solved.’
‘The one about who tried to kill you, you mean? Good God, Otto, why would he want to kill you, except because he was worried about you uncovering the truth? But he won’t admit that, which is why I —’
‘Paid his wife a visit? Yes, Tom, I see your thinking.’
‘You know, Latham went back this morning to see if you were dead. He would have been surprised to see you there.’
‘He was angry — which, I suppose, is one way of showing surprise.’
‘Well, what do you think? He cut the rope, because he wanted to keep the evidence hidden, surely?’
Otto shook his head. ‘We’ve made no link between Latham and the knife and clothes, yet here you are, jumping to conclusions that there is a link. Just like David Rose and the pipe!’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I just wish you hadn’t gone to Latham’s. I’d already spoken to Mrs Latham; your visiting her only provoked the man.’
‘I said I’m sorry. I just had to do something, seeing as you don’t seem to want me to do anything.’
‘What are you talking about! I’m the detective. What do you know about police work?’
‘More than the average Daylesford trap.’
Otto thought this wouldn’t be so hard. He smiled at Tom’s quick wit, but Tom had up a small head of steam, and the moment of relief was short-lived.
‘Otto, have you forgotten so soon? I was at the trial. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t be here now. And on Tuesday you’d be reading about how David Rose was hanged.’
‘I just wish you’d not acted without consultation.’
‘Like you?’
‘I’m in charge of this investigation! I don’t have to consult!’
Tom hung his head, and Otto wondered whether he’d been a little strident. In the silence, he had room to think, and it occurred to him that maybe Tom’s little expedition wasn’t so ill-advised after all.
‘You know, I don’t think Latham wanted to kill me. He’s an angry man, a bully. I trespassed in visiting his wife, just as you did. He didn’t cut the rope to silence me. He cut it for the same reason he hit you — he hurts anyone who crosses him. He must have followed us to the shaft, so he would have known you’d be back to pull me out.’
‘Then wouldn’t he want to tell you it was he who’d dropped you in the muck, just to let you know he wasn’t to be trifled with?’
‘I’m sure he would. But I think he’s smarter than to give me a reason to arrest him for attempted murder. He must have thought about that.’
‘If he didn’t want to kill you, then can he still be a suspect? I’m really quite confused, because who else could there be?’
‘Well, Tom, after my visit to Kreckler’s, I can tell you.’
ON REACHING PITMAN’S, IT occurred to Otto that he should have dressed down; the Saturday-night clientele sported a standard of attire well below his, more in keeping with the décor of bush poles, bark sheets, and rustic furniture. Not that he was there incognito; it was just that, with the police hostile to his presence, Otto thought there was a good case for subtlety. But owing to his recent plunge into ordure, all he had left were his tailored jacket and trousers, making him look a city gentleman who’d lost his way. But then came an unexpected benefit from standing out from the crowd: Maria Molesworth appeared from the throng and introduced herself. Otto had guessed her name before she’d said it, thanks to Kreckler’s summary word-sketch.
‘Would you care for a drink, Sir? Some company?’
‘Thank you, no. You’re Maria Molesworth, I presume? I wonder whether I might ask you a few questions?’
The smile fell from Maria’s made-up face. ‘What are you, police?’
‘I can’t deny it. Detective Otto Berliner. Is there somewhere private?’
A woman of dowdy appearance and frayed demeanour intruded. ‘She’s working, so her time’s not hers to give. Meaning, Detective, mind you pay.’
‘And you are?’
‘I’m the proprietor, and as my husband is not here at present, and it’s Saturday night, we’ve no time for questions from the police. Except paying ones, o’course. I’m sure you’d understand.’
Otto made a slight bow, and Mrs Pitman shifted herself away to serve at the bar. Maria looked ready to move.
‘I won’t keep you long, Maria.’
Otto reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the photograph of the knife. He showed it to Maria.
‘This knife, which I know you bought from Kreckler’s, was the knife that killed Maggie Stuart, who you were seen talking —’
Maria silenced Otto with a hand on his forearm. ‘Please, not here.’ She turned and wove a route between and around the half-dozen or so patrons variously sitting, standing, or leaning as they chatted and laughed, and drank their way through their pay.
‘Don’t be long, Maria,’ one called, ‘I can feel something coming on!’ Similar remarks were made, each drawing more snaggle-tooth chuckles and back-slaps.
Maria pushed open the door at the back of the room and led them into the small yard between the Pitmans’ cottage and t
heir business. Therein stood a room, with a lamp burning weakly in the window. Maria pushed the door open and led Otto inside. It was small and cosily furnished.
‘Your boudoir? Very nice.’
The compliment did nothing to quell Maria’s manifest discomfort. Her breathing was shallow, her chest heaving, and eyes wide.
‘Listen to me, Detective. I bought that knife because Mrs Pitman sent me for it. She told me it was a present for her husband on his birthday last year. I haven’t seen it since I gave it to her. And as for speaking to Margaret Stuart, I won’t deny it.’
‘What were you speaking about?’
‘I can’t rightly remember, but I do remember I was not very pleasant to her. I regret that now. Naturally.’
‘You didn’t like her?’
‘I didn’t know her well enough to like her or not. I get down at times, see. I was jealous of her, being pretty and married and everybody’s darling.’ She looked away, into the lamplight. ‘And now she’s dead. I must sound like a bitter old woman —’
She turned quickly to Otto.
‘You think John Pitman killed her?’
Otto disregarded the enquiry. ‘On the night of the murder, you were seen leaving the Christy’s Minstrels show early. Where did you go?’
‘What! So now you think I did it! This is absurd. There’s a man already in gaol for Maggie’s murder, and he’s going to hang for it.’
‘Yes, he will, at ten o’clock Monday morning. But I, and others besides, believe him to be not guilty. This knife is not his, and unless it can be shown that he ever had it in his possession, he will be executed as an innocent man. Would you want that on your conscience, Maria? Because it will be if you don’t tell me all that you know, beginning with where you went when you left the theatre early that night.’
Maria was on edge, but with a nod she seemed at last to understand that her best hope was in cooperating.
‘I came home, here. I had an awful headache. I get them on occasion.’
‘Can anyone verify that you were home?’
