The Unmourned

by Thomas Keneally

  ‘Mrs Nelson said she would look after me,’ Grogan said stubbornly, as though seeking to reassure himself of that truth.

  ‘And did you think to ask yourself, lad, about the character of someone who would so lightly burn her own house to the ground? Someone who would engineer the death of a woman who had done nothing but assist her? Someone who would think nothing of consigning to the flames a necklace of such value that it could pay for another observatory for the governor, wherever he is now. She was willing to dispose of all these treasures. Are you a greater treasure to her, I wonder?’

  Daly’s voice turned soft, his tone became fatherly. It was more chilling to Monsarrat than his threats had been – the knowledge that this man of power was able to change his verbal coloration with such ease.

  ‘I’m sure she made you promises, my boy,’ said Daly. ‘I’m sure she claimed that you and she would live like a king and queen away from Parramatta’s muck. Was it a farm she promised you? Or just a comfortable house without the need to drive a horse through this heat? Whatever it was, it will never come to pass. She has gone, and gone permanently. And I can guarantee you she has no thought of returning.’

  Grogan stared at Daly, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’re wrong. She’s a good woman. She saved me. Mr Nelson was going to let me go – felt I wasn’t taking good enough care of the horses. He even accused me of selling their feed so I could drink. It wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter to him. She made him see he was wrong.’

  Daly laughed, a harsh sound. ‘Is that all? You bartered your life for your job? Wait … she came to you, didn’t she? She did! I can see it in your face. She did more than promise you a comfortable future. She made … a down-payment.’

  ‘I would never speak of such things.’

  ‘Good lad, does you credit. And you need say nothing, for I already know. But it was all false. I doubt she’s given you the merest flicker of thought since she left.’

  This reality was beginning to settle over Grogan’s mind. His face began to sag, as he gave up the effort of keeping it flint-hard and unreadable.

  ‘I would have done anything for her,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘The matter at hand is what precisely did you do for her?’

  ‘I drove her around. She’d ask me to take certain items from her husband’s warehouse to this person or that, exchange them for payment, bring the money back to her.’

  ‘Tell me about the night of Robert Church’s murder.’

  Grogan inhaled and held his breath for what seemed like minutes. Perhaps, thought Monsarrat, he was savouring the sensation of full lungs while he could.

  ‘The night the superintendent was killed, I drove her to the Female Factory. Waited until she came out – from around the side, not through the front gate – drove her home. That was all.’

  ‘Did you know what she’d done?’

  ‘No. She just told me she had removed an impediment to our future happiness. I didn’t ask anything further – she didn’t like it when I asked questions. But the next day, when I heard of the murder … I knew. And I was glad. That man pawed at her, she said, until she wished her flesh was not her own. He deserved it.’

  ‘Well, there are many who’d agree with you, as it happens. But it was still a crime, you know. And one you assisted, wittingly or not.’

  Grogan’s eyes began to dart around the room. He can sense the net beginning to close, thought Monsarrat.

  ‘And you made another night-time visit to the Factory, didn’t you? With the Irishwoman, Hannah Mulrooney. A woman, by the way, who happens to be of significant interest to my friend Mr Monsarrat here, and a woman whom, it seems, you drove to her near-death.’

  ‘I didn’t know Mrs Nelson wanted to kill her.’

  ‘Ah, but did you give her any information about Mrs Mulrooney’s visit to the Factory that night?’

  ‘I told her the woman had taken a long time to retrieve a simple item. And that she returned without shoes.’

  ‘I see. And the next day you assisted her in abducting the woman, and driving her to the place where she was nearly killed. To say nothing of your attack on my scribe here.’

  Grogan was silent.

  ‘Well, Mr Grogan, I believe I have all I need.’

  ‘All you need for what?’

  ‘Why, all I need to hang you, of course. Dealing in stolen property; aiding in one murder and attempting another; abduction – more than enough to earn you a capital sentence. We may need some more information, of course, and when we do we shall be sure to return. In the meantime, I hope you have a pleasant afternoon. Good day.’

  Chapter 35

  Monsarrat was left discomfited by the exchange.

  He seemed to have found in the superintendent if not a friend at least not an avowed enemy, and he was reluctant to change the situation, barely dared glance at the man in case he took it askance.

  While Grogan was no doubt guilty of everything laid at his door, he appeared to Monsarrat simple rather than evil. Not someone who deserved to have their head thrust through a noose where Rebecca Nelson’s neck should rest.

  There was, probably, little he could do about the situation, and speaking out on Grogan’s behalf would run counter to Mr Cruden’s admonition to stay out of his own way. But the recklessness that prompted him to speak when it was better to stay silent was never far away, and as he and Daly made their way down George Street, Monsarrat was alarmed to hear the sound of his own voice. ‘Sir, Grogan was a dupe. Is there no hope of mercy in exchange for the information he gave you? Is he not too stupid to hang?’

  ‘He did what he did, and the gallows will have their fodder. I make no apologies for it. Without his collusion, Mrs Nelson – Miss Drake, whoever she is – would have found it much harder to commit her crimes. And I’d ask you to please not forget that your housekeeper very nearly died as a direct result of being abducted by him. No, spare your scruples, Monsarrat. They are a luxury we cannot always afford here.’

  They were passing the Corner now, adorned as it frequently was by Stephen Lethbridge, who winked at Monsarrat and lifted his black cloth cap to the superintendent. Daly glared at him. Perhaps Lethbridge lacked some necessary permit for the distribution of pies on street corners.

  ‘I will say this,’ said Daly. ‘You have earned my regard, and it is a regard I am not used to bestowing on people such as you – those who have contravened the law not once but twice. You would be well advised to do anything you can to stop me changing my mind about your character.’

  Monsarrat knew he would do precisely that, and he felt like a coward. But he needed to hold onto his good standing with the man at least for as long as it took to accomplish one last task.

  ‘Sir, about the prisoner Grace O’Leary.’

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘Clearly she has been exculpated. I wonder, in recognition of her innocence, whether it might be appropriate to recommend she be moved back into the First Class?’

  ‘Absolutely not. The woman is a rioter. God knows what else she would urge the others to do if she had a chance. It’s fortunate, and no accident, that we have removed her means of communicating with them by keeping her confined. She stays where she is, Monsarrat, and I wish to hear no more about it.’

  Monsarrat bowed slightly. ‘I shall make a fair copy of this afternoon’s proceedings, sir, and deliver it to you as soon as it’s complete.’

  ‘See that you do. Oh, one more thing …’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘I’m told by many and various people that your housekeeper has a facility with shortbread. A weakness of mine. When you deliver the report, if some shortbread were to accompany it I might be better disposed towards any requests you have to make.’

  * * *

  ‘No, I’m not going to intercede with Superintendent Daly, Monsarrat. The man can be quite intractable, and I’m sure he will be in this matter especially. He’s not above the occasional bout of wounded pride. In any case, she did foment a rebellion, you know.
’

  ‘I understand, Mr Eveleigh.’

  ‘I have done one thing for you, though. Look at this.’

  Eveleigh slid a piece of paper over his immaculate desk. It was the page from the Female Factory records which contained the information on Grace. Her name, date of birth, what she looked like (apparently her hair, when it grew back, would be brown) and her sentence. Seven years.

  ‘So she will be free next March, Monsarrat. Well, as free as you can be on a conditional ticket of leave. And I thought you might like the opportunity to remind her of that fact.’

  ‘I would, sir, very much. And to let her know what has transpired, that she no longer faces execution. But I’m sure Superintendent Rohan would not allow it.’

  ‘Allow me to see what I can do. I’m not above interceding with officials when I believe it will do some good. As indeed it has done in another case. I’ve received word from Rohan that your application for an assigned convict has been approved.’

  This was indeed good news. Mrs Mulrooney was recuperating at home, still unable to put any pressure on her shattered ankle, fretting that she couldn’t kneel to say daily prayers of thanks to the Blessed Virgin, or stand to make Monsarrat a batch of shortbread he could have all to himself.

  It had to be said, though, that she was in a horrendous mood from morning to night. The kitchen things were no doubt being allowed to run riot, she said, and she certainly couldn’t trust Monsarrat to keep up with the dusting. It wouldn’t surprise her, she said, if when she was well enough to return to the kitchen she was greeted with a pile of rubble.

  Dusting was not, in truth, one of Monsarrat’s best-honed skills, and in any case Mrs Mulrooney needed a project. It might keep her from snapping at Monsarrat quite so much. So he had applied to the Female Factory for an assigned convict maidservant. Someone who would do the dusting under Mrs Mulrooney’s vigilant eye. Someone young enough to be trained by her. Someone who would take her direction without complaint.

  Monsarrat had requested Helen Down. She seemed to trust Mrs Mulrooney, and Monsarrat recalled his housekeeper’s distress at Helen’s loss of her daughter to the orphan school.

  ‘I am grateful, sir,’ Monsarrat told Eveleigh.

  ‘She should be on her way to your home now. So you had best get there quickly and explain yourself to the woman before her new helper arrives unannounced.’

  Monsarrat wasted no time in taking his leave, forcing himself to walk at a stately pace down the Government House driveway, but breaking into a run as soon as he was out of sight.

  * * *

  He needn’t have worried, as it turned out. Helen had already arrived. She had assisted Hannah from her bed, and the housekeeper was commanding activities in the kitchen from the depths of the comfortable chair which, judging by the grooves in the dirt between the house and the kitchen, Helen had dragged in from the parlour. It was something Monsarrat had been offering to do since they had moved into the cottage, and the idea had always been rejected – Mrs Mulrooney said she couldn’t be doing with sitting in comfortable chairs when there was work at hand.

  And she was working now, for all that she was barely able to walk. She was showing Helen the proper way to handle each kitchen utensil; the amount of force to be applied to scouring the table; and, most importantly, the appropriate way to make a pot of tea.

  But she was doing so with a smile and gentle coaxing words rather than the bald commands Monsarrat knew she was capable of. And Helen was smiling back, showing echoes, no doubt, of the innocent she had been before Robert Church had got to her.

  Monsarrat stood on the threshold of the kitchen watching them both for some time, unnoticed.

  Finally Mrs Mulrooney spotted him. ‘You’ve organised some company for me,’ she said. ‘Thank you. It will surprise you to know I can become a little ill-tempered if left alone too long. So ill-tempered I almost forget to thank the people who preserved my very life.’

  ‘Surely not ill-tempered,’ said Monsarrat, gratified by what passed for Mrs Mulrooney as profuse thanks. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘The coughing has nearly stopped, thanks be to God. The ankle … Well, I expect it’ll get on with healing up at its own pace, but I fully intend to be on it by Christmas.’

  Monsarrat had no doubt this would occur. He noticed, then, that Helen had backed into a corner of the kitchen and was standing very still, her eyes down. She looked, frankly, terrified.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said gently. ‘Helen, is it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, almost whispering.

  ‘You are safe here, Helen. No harm will come to you, not from me.’

  But he was chiding himself. He had given no thought to where the girl was to sleep.

  He sat at the kitchen table next to Hannah, and Helen put a more than adequate cup of tea in front of him, and looked shocked when he smiled his thanks.

  ‘Mrs Mulrooney,’ he said quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I know you love your kitchen room, but now that you’re installed in the house, do you think …’

  ‘Of course, eejit of a man. She will have my room next to the kitchen, lucky girl. I shall stay in the house for now. When I’m back to myself again … we shall see. Perhaps you will have to buy a house with a kitchen that has two sleeping rooms next to it.’

  That, he thought, would be a miracle. He didn’t want to worry Mrs Mulrooney, but the fact that the major’s gift was all but gone seemed of even greater concern now that more pressing matters had been resolved. The salary of a clerk did not stretch very far.

  As he finished his tea, he heard a knock and a hail from the front of the house. On the other side of the front door stood James Henson, his hat off and his brilliant white hair on full display.

  ‘Ah, Mr Monsarrat. I’m surprised to find you at home at this hour.’

  ‘Yes, you’re lucky to do so. My employer has given me leave to see to my housekeeper, who has suffered an injury.’

  ‘I heard,’ Henson said. ‘And very sorry I am, too. In fact, it’s partly about her that I’ve come. But first’ – he gestured to a crate beside him – ‘allow me to carry this in for you. I believe you know what it contains.’

  Monsarrat invited Henson in, gestured to a place on the floor of the parlour where the crate could rest for now, and took Henson into the kitchen to see Mrs Mulrooney. She, more than anyone, had a right to hear what the man had to say.

  Helen might have been perturbed by another male entering the kitchen, but this time she showed no sign of it. She simply busied herself preparing another cup of tea, displaying a quick agility that made Mrs Mulrooney nod to herself.

  ‘How is Mr Nelson?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Well, I doubt he’ll ever quite recover. The loss and betrayal … He is undone, has locked himself away in a back room at the warehouse, where he works and sleeps. He’s not long for Parramatta though. He is making arrangements to move to Sydney, where he hopes to escape the stain of it.’

  ‘Will you go with him?’ asked Mrs Mulrooney.

  ‘I might as well, missus. The only trade I know, and he’s a decent man. I should think we’ll be heading east by month’s end. He wishes to be in Sydney by Christmas, to pass that day in the busyness of setting up his operation there.’

  ‘Poor man,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘He mustn’t think less of himself. She was an artful woman.’

  ‘He does think less of himself, though. And he feels particularly culpable when it comes to you, missus. He says you nearly burned to death thanks to his gullibility.’

  ‘I don’t lay any of the blame on him.’

  ‘Kind of you. I’m hoping, then, that you’ll accede to a request he makes. There is a particular item he wishes never to see again. He very much hopes you are willing to accept it as a gift, but will understand if you are not.’

  Henson reached into his jacket, pulled out a small velvet pouch, a vibrant blue though it had some dark smears on it. He passed it over the table to Mrs Mulrooney.

  Wh
en she opened it and reached inside, the stones felt heavy and cold. But the necklace was in pieces, some of the links charred, some broken. The clasp was bent, and a few of the small diamonds around the largest sapphire had popped out of their settings.

  ‘I don’t want this, Mr Henson. It is too valuable a gift, with too many devilish memories attached.’

  ‘Indeed. Mr Nelson said that under those circumstances I was to ask Mr Monsarrat to sell it and to give you the proceeds.’

  ‘I shall certainly do so,’ said Monsarrat. ‘It is a most generous gift, and will be of far more use to Mrs Mulrooney as a tradable item than as a piece of jewellery.’

  Mrs Mulrooney tipped the pieces of the necklace back into the bag, as though they were river pebbles. ‘Take the cursed thing then, Mr Monsarrat. Do what you will with it on the condition I never have to look at it again.’

  Helen, meanwhile, had placed fresh tea in front of each of them, together with a plate of freshly baked shortbread that Mrs Mulrooney had coached her to make. It was nearly gone by the time Henson stood, bowed to Mrs Mulrooney and wished her a speedy recovery and many happy years of use of her tea set.

  As he left, Mrs Mulrooney smiled at Helen and turned to Monsarrat. ‘What is this about a tea set?’

  ‘Do you know, I nearly forgot the thing. I ordered it as a pretext for asking about the thefts at the warehouse. But I did have certain individual sensibilities in mind when I chose it.’

  He fetched the crate, and as he drew each item from its sawdust packing Hannah’s eyes widened. ‘The finest china I’ve seen since Port Macquarie,’ she said. ‘And those clovers, they look almost like shamrocks. More than enough for me to forgive them for being green.’