Mungo waited. If help was close at hand, there would be an answering response of ‘Coo-ee!’ He knew that through cupped hands the Aboriginal call and response would carry clearly for seven miles. The bush remained silent.
Logan’s voice sounded eerily close at hand. There was no response. Military help must be out of range.
Mungo sensed he was in mortal danger. He tried to shrink from sight, lying face down in the earth under cover of the undergrowth, freeing the knife from its sheath to defend himself . . .
Finally all was quiet – an unnatural silence. He emerged, his hunting knife drawn at the ready as he drew closer to a clearing. Chestnuts lay scattered on the ground. A thin strand of smoke rose from a dying fire smouldering in a hollow tree trunk. Like toys teased by the wind, white papers scudded across the red earth . . .
Logan lay on the ground a few yards ahead – staring at him, his eyes wide open in terror. There were bloodstains on his white shirt. Mungo ran to him, knife in hand, yelling at him, the guttural cry of a dog . . . Mungo’s eyes misted over with the red film of bloodlust . . . he heard the voice inside his head . . . ‘Die you tyrant!’!
. . . Mungo looked at the knife blade, cold with horror. Red. His hands were stained with Logan’s blood. He dragged Logan’s body to the shallow grave . . . a spear stood planted at each end. The expression in Logan’s eyes made him sick to the stomach . . . He was unable to avert his gaze from the terror in those black pupils staring at him.
The unseen voice told him to remain calm and describe exactly what he saw. Panting with the effort, Mungo described those terrible eyes . . .
He rolled Logan’s body over to lie face down in the shallow grave. With both hands he stabbed his knife into the ground to break up the soil . . . covered the body – until there was nothing to be seen but a low mound of soft red earth . . .
Then he was back in the bush, running nowhere . . . hearing nothing but his own jagged breathing, as he staggered through the darkness, whipped and grazed by the scrub . . . feeling the horror of his skin growing taut with dried blood . . . Logan’s blood.
And then he heard it – like a mocking response. Far in the distance came the faint call, ‘Coo-ee!’
Was this the call of Logan’s soldiers searching for him too late? Or was it the desperate echo . . . of Logan’s ghost?
• • •
Sandy’s calm voice slowly drew him back to the present. Mungo felt like a diver rising from the depths of the ocean, from the depths of fear – to safety.
Mungo found himself lying on the sofa in Sandy’s office, his senses drained of emotion, his mind drained of anger, his body limp as if weakened by loss of blood.
Wordlessly he took the glass of water Sandy offered him and they sat together in silence until Mungo felt strong enough to ask the question. ‘You see? I told you I wasn’t lying. Now you know the worst.’
‘Aye, it’s a terrible burden of memory for any man to carry. And no one can carry it for you. But the truth will set you free.’
‘Free?’ Mungo felt anger struggling with fatigue. ‘Did you actually hear what I said? I held nothing back. I said it just as I saw it. I saw the terror in his eyes. I stabbed him with my knife, Sandy!’
‘No British court would convict you of murder. The terror you saw in Patrick Logan’s eyes was caused by his last sight of the man who was his assassin.’
Sandy leaned forward and held his gaze. ‘You wanted to kill him, Mungo – blinded by rage at his years of injustice to you and many other prisoners at Moreton Bay. But you did not kill him. If you did in fact stab him – you knowingly stabbed the body of a man who was already dead!’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You told me the truth under hypnosis. You described Logan’s body in detail. The pupils of the eyes, fixed at the moment of death. Black. Devoid of all light – a valid description from a layman. It proves you released your rage on his corpse.’
Mungo held his head in his hands.
‘Stop torturing yourself, lad. I give ye my word as a physician. Logan was dead when you found him. You buried him in the grave that was already dug by his assassins. One man or many, white or black, whatever, you never saw them. But Logan did. No doubt they abandoned his corpse when they heard the search party calling him.’
‘You buried Logan face down to avoid those staring eyes. Believe me, after all my years as a physician I’ve never grown used to the unnatural sight of dead men’s eyes.’
‘You’re just saying this to let me off the hook.’
For a moment Sandy dropped his professional guard. ‘Letitia Logan is my kin. Do you honestly think I would hesitate to hand over her husband’s murderer to the law if I had the coward right here in my hands?’
Mungo was silenced by the ring of truth.
‘I know you, Mungo Quayle, better than you know yourself. Even blinded by rage, it isn’t in ye to assassinate a man in cold blood. You were in shock when ye buried him in that grave – and you blocked out the whole ghastly memory.’
‘At Moreton Bay Stimson warned me – at least his ghost did. He said I was going to be involved in a murder. A test of some kind. I don’t know what to believe. But God knows, I want to believe you.’
‘Ye have no choice, lad. I took down every word you said under hypnosis.’
Sandy reached for the whisky. ‘I don’t know about you, Mungo – but I feel Sean O’Connor and I deserve a wee drink after a hard day’s work.’
• • •
Miss Weekes’s disapproval was etched in every line of her face when Mungo emerged with Sandy from his office, laughing together over a quotation of Robbie Burns’s poem in Gaelic that was too delicate for a lady’s ears.
Sandy reached for his beaver skin top hat on the hatstand, casting a sheepish eye in the direction of his receptionist. Mungo would never forget the woman’s expression at Sandy’s parting words. ‘A fine pot of tea, Miss Weekes, and much needed. Because this gentleman and I have just solved a murder!’
Mungo stepped out into Macquarie Street to be bathed in sunlight and a blanket of heat that caused the sweat to break out on his body, running in rivulets down his back like a blessing.
Sandy gave him a nudge. ‘I suggest ye ride home and put your good mother out of her misery – to say nothing of that passionate lass of yours. I suspect Miss Francis sees life through the pages of romantic novels. If you’re none too careful, that brother of yours will bed her and wed her while she’s on the rebound from you!’
Mungo was sobered by the thought. ‘Felix! What a damned fool I am. How do I manage to get myself into one damned mess after another?’
‘Easily!’ said Sandy. ‘It’s a knack you have.’
Driven by his urgent need to put his world to rights, Mungo took a flying leap into the saddle and Boadicea charged off into the face of the wind.
Chapter 46
On her return to the loft Vianna had struggled between shock over the theft of Boadicea, anger at Mungo’s refusal to allow her to join in the search and her determination to remain awake until their safe return.
At the sound of footsteps in the early hours of the morning, she had slid barefoot down the ladder. Eavesdropping outside Jane’s open door she had been comforted by Sandy Gordon’s assurance to Jane that Mungo was asleep at Rockingham Hall and Boadicea was safe.
‘Your lad caught that cur Blewitt in the act of thrashing Boadicea and fought him. The coward fell on his own knife but dinna worry, lass. I saw him run for his life, so have nae fear Mungo will be charged.’
Vianna had at last been able to fall asleep, moved by the memory of Jane’s rare tears as Sandy held her in his arms.
Let’s hope there’s a happy ending for someone in this whole sorry mess.
Now dressed and on her way to check on Jane, her heart beat at a gallop when she discovered the note under her door. Relief changed to waves of anger as she slowly read his words.
‘Go to Felix. Allow him to love you.’
T
he hide of Mungo! Who does he think he is, treating me like his goods and chattel! It’s my decision what I do with my life.
By the third reading of his note her anger began to cool. Honesty forced her to admit that last night’s clear evidence of Severin’s revenge had changed everything. Severin had already killed one man in a duel, and possibly his own wife, under the pretence of suicide. The attempt on Boadicea’s life had been a final warning, aimed at Vianna. Whichever brother she chose was now in mortal danger at Severin’s hands.
None of us are safe unless I remove myself entirely from their lives. I can’t stay here. But where on earth can I go without money?
The necklace had already been pawned to pay for dress materials and she had no money to redeem it and sell it. She was reminded of the wise Yiddish saying, ‘If you can’t decide between two options, choose a third.’ She was suddenly sobered by the thought of Daisy.
Why do I feel in my heart that she’s not far away from me?
Was it her imagination or was that the haunting sound of a violin in the street? Guido had once told her, ‘The violin is called the Devil’s instrument.’ But now as the haunting melody grew closer it sounded like the message of an angel.
Angel or devil, it was playing ‘The Black Velvet Band’, the Irish ballad she had sung at The Rocks the night she first met Severin, and later performed on stage. Drawn to the window she looked down into the street at the young violinist as he stood playing, his dark hair falling across his forehead, eyes closed, immersed in this music. An upturned hat lay at his feet with a few copper coins.
Guido! But why is he busking in this back street? The last I knew he had his own orchestra at the Governor’s Ball.
Halted by the unexpected quality of the music, shabbily dressed passers-by paused to listen and add a coin to his cap.
Vianna emptied the few coins from her reticule and hurried down the ladder.
Guido’s eyes remained closed until he finished the music. Vianna wrapped him in a warm embrace.
‘Guido, my friend. It’s so lovely to see you. But what are you doing here?’
‘It is no accident, bella, I am paid to play here until you come out. No matter how long it takes. Then I take you to him.’
‘Not Severin?’ she asked aghast.
In answer Guido pulled the bow of the violin across his throat in a swift throat-cutting gesture. ‘Never! This man is known to you – a true gentleman. But he must not be seen here.’
Guido tucked his violin tenderly into its case as if it were a child, transferred the coins to his pocket, replaced his hat on his head and offered her his arm. ‘Come. I take you to him.’
A short distance away, out of sight of the Rockingham estate, a chaise stood waiting. The passenger, a black-clad young man with a ribbon knotted around his throat, sprang down onto the road and in cavalier fashion bowed low with a flourish of his plumed hat.
‘It is you, Jean-Baptiste!’ she cried happily and embraced him.
As always when emotional, his charming French accent was more acute.
‘I am afraid you do not forgive me for my “other” portrait.’
‘Nothing to forgive, Jean-Baptiste. Your only crime was that you trusted Severin’s word as a gentleman. How can I blame you? He had me fooled for years.’
He kissed her hand in gratitude. ‘You will ride with me, yes?’
Vianna was instantly bundled into the chaise while the artist recompensed Guido for his unusual performance. Violin cradled in his arms, Guido called back, ‘Till we meet again, bella.’
Vianna tried to suppress a smile. ‘I must say, Jean-Baptiste, you have a unique way of attracting a lady’s attention.’
‘Madame, forgive my intrusion. I beg leave to speak with you. I could not be seen approaching Rockingham Hall.’
I’m not surprised, if the rumours about Mrs L’Estrange are true.
Seated across from him gave her time to study his face. Was it her imagination or had the passing year made him look older? His features retained their handsome youthfulness but sadness had etched fine lines around those luminous dark eyes. Or was the change due to the moustache he had grown since their last meeting?
Vianna teasingly tapped her upper lip to draw attention to his moustache.
‘This is new. Is it a disguise to avoid a jealous husband?’
‘No! You do not like it? Then I shave it off immediately! I grow it to make myself look more distinguished – in the company of my new patron, a charming lady. This is why I could not come openly to your house to speak with you.’
I should have guessed. Molly’s gossip is invariably accurate.
Jean-Baptiste was anxious to put her at ease. ‘This cloak-and-dagger meeting is the only way I could think to contact you. I must appear like the thief in the night, skulking behind the stables of your house.’
‘The stables are where I live,’ she said with a touch of pride. ‘Severin is gone from my life – forever.’
‘Forgive me – replaced by Monsieur Felix?’
‘Replaced by no man. How did you find me?’
‘Severin’s bodyguard, Blewitt, he is easily bought.’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingers in a gesture of contempt.
‘You have gone to a great deal of trouble to find me, Jean-Baptiste. Why?’
‘I wish to make you the offer. No, no! I assure you there is no sting in the tail. I wish to make amends for the great embarrassment I cause you. In two weeks I set sail for Europe. Thanks to my patron –’
‘Mrs L’Estrange, I presume,’ she said to put him at ease.
He looked startled, ‘Why yes. Thanks to her an aristocrat in London has agreed to sponsor an exhibition. Europeans are fascinated by the exotic Antipodes. I will exhibit all my work, landscapes, strange animals and plants, the exotic beauty of Polynesian, Maori and Aboriginal women. Your black maid posed for me.’
‘Wanda? She is all right? Is she still with Major Dalby?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Alas no longer. He shrugged. ‘Severin made the big trouble for her. I gave her work as a model. Now she is gone – who knows where?’
Upset by the distress his news caused her, he quickly changed the subject.
‘I managed to buy my portrait of you at the auction of Severin House. But there is also the matter of that other private portrait Felix L’Estrange bought and left in my care. I promised never to show it. But now perhaps . . . in London?’
I knew there’d be a hidden agenda. Even the nicest men want something.
‘I see. You want to exhibit the Sydney Town Venus that shocked the Colony.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘Bah! Colonial philistines. Europeans are not shocked by such beauty.’ He fervently crossed his heart. ‘Madame, I swear by the Holy Virgin it will never be seen in public – unless you grant me the permission.’
‘Granted, Jean-Baptiste. I no longer have a reputation worth guarding. Name the portrait what you will. But please call me Vianna. We are still friends, yes?’
He leaned across and kissed her hand, taking advantage of the rocking motion of the carriage to slip into the seat beside her.
‘Thank you from my heart, Vianna. This portrait will bring me bon chance. But this is not my only reason. I wish to offer you your passage to England.’
‘Jean-Baptiste, I must be honest with you –’
‘As always, that is why I love you. But my offer is without the strings attached. There will be no pressure from me, you understand me?’
I don’t doubt he means that right at this moment. But three months at sea with a passionate young Frenchman? I wouldn’t bet on it.
‘You are a true gentleman. But I could never allow you to pay my passage.’
‘No, no. You will not be in my debt. I planned to travel in company with – my patron. She now chooses to delay her journey – unwise for us to travel openly together. Her fine suite on the Bussorah Merchant is already paid for – it sails directly to Cork in two weeks then to London. You see? This gives you th
e perfect chance to begin a new life – far from Severin. The lady wished to travel incognito – so it is booked under the name of Mrs Brown. No one will even know you left the Colony . . . it is a good plan, yes?’
‘I am overwhelmed, Jean-Baptiste. It would be the perfect exit for me – and I thank you from my heart. But I am unable to leave – no, no, not because of a man. I have no romantic ties now. Because of a lost child, my sister. I simply cannot leave the Colony without finding out what has happened to her.’
‘If you find her, you will sail with me on the Bussorah Merchant?’
Vianna grasped at the heaven sent offer. ‘If I should find Daisy, yes, we will gladly return to England with you.’
He kissed her hand passionately. ‘May God grant that you find her.’
God willing, I will.
‘Vianna, you are not safe from Severin. Before our ship sails, I offer you my protection. My bedchamber is yours – I shall sleep in my studio,’ he added quickly. ‘You will be safe there with me.’
Vianna impulsively reached out and kissed his cheek. ‘You are a darling. I shall think about your offer, I promise.’
On her return to Little Rockingham Street, Vianna waved goodbye, holding the ticket that offered her a passport to a new life – a windfall she could not ignore.
This is a sign that fate is about to open the doors to a new life. That my search for Daisy will end happily. Severin will be past history.
She felt an instant stab at the thought that the pain of leaving Mungo would be easier to bear thirteen thousand miles away from him.
In time he will forget me, marry a girl who can bear his children. But I shall never forget him – or dear naïve Felix.
The few tangible possessions Vianna needed to begin her new life could be carried in one carpetbag. Her memories were not so easily confined. Determined to act as if her happy future was already written in stone, she packed a bag in readiness with the items of clothing she had sewn herself. And lastly, the lovely rag doll she had made for Daisy.
The Lace Balcony Page 50
