by Téa Cooper
‘What’s the time?’ Waverley destroyed Nikolas’s life, there was no way he’d ruin Catherine’s. That couldn’t, wouldn’t happen.
Archie looked up at the sun. ‘About time.’
Sergey strode up to front door and threw it open. His heart twisted then shrivelled as Catherine began the slow, lonely descent of the wide stairs. A halo of sunshine from the window highlighted her quicksilver hair, a perfect match for the pale flowing gown she wore, as ethereal as an angel.
Catherine sucked in a huge gulp of air, tethering herself to the strange reality. She’d walked up and down these stairs a million times. She could do it with her eyes closed and that was the way she’d rather it be today.
Somewhere below the curve in the staircase, amongst the mass of tenants and well-wishers, Bartholomew waited, her future, a future she’d hoped she’d never have to face.
When she stepped onto the first stair the hum of conversation ceased and an uncomfortable silence fell. Keeping her eyes closed and her hand on the smooth cedar banister she walked down. Blindly drawn into a life she’d sworn she didn’t want. The hard ball of grief and misery lodged in her throat robbed her of breath.
One step at a time, each taking her closer to Bartholomew. Everything Pa intended. Everything she’d fought. This was for Pa, for Cottington. All she’d managed to do was postpone the inevitable and she’d failed. Not again. Now Cottington Hill would thrive, she’d see to it until her last dying breath.
As she reached the last step her foot caught in the hem of her dress, not her dress, Ma’s dress. This was for Ma and Pa and the boys.
Tilly pried her fingers off the banister, pushing a posy of flannel flowers into her cold hands and Catherine took the long walk to Bartholomew’s side. He reached out to her. Shivers of revulsion pinpricked her skin as his clammy hand brushed her arm.
‘Waverley!’ A harsh bark slashed the silence.
Her eyes snapped open.
Bartholomew’s head lifted and his face blanched. Then he poked his thumb and forefinger into the fob pocket of his silver waistcoat as though he were searching for something, gave up and thrust out his chest.
Light streamed through the open door, the shadow moved and took the shape of a man.
‘Or is it Henry Bartholomew?’
Her heart gave an irrational leap of joy. She’d know his voice across a thousand miles. Sergey! Sergey looking ill at ease in his own body, but Sergey nonetheless.
Tightening her grip on the posy of flannel flowers she anchored herself, feet rooted to the spot. All she wanted to do was to run and throw herself into his arms.
Not such a good idea.
His hand cradled a small pistol. A pistol he had trained on her and Bartholomew.
Beside him stood Archie, a grin bigger than a full moon plastered on his face.
‘A wedding is a sacrament of God. Kindly lower that weapon.’ Father Brown stepped between Sergey and Bartholomew. ‘I uphold the sanctity of this rite and I would ask you to do likewise.’
Sergey lowered the pistol until his arm hung by his side. ‘I have no argument with you. Step aside, Father.’
‘I will not. Why do you seek to interrupt this marriage?’
Sergey’s face bore no resemblance to the man she’d last seen, with his grim mouth and cold, flat eyes, stubble darkening his jaw and his clothes hanging dirty and tattered.
‘Catherine.’ Bartholomew turned and held out his hand to her again.
She dragged her gaze away from Sergey, her fingernails biting into the stems of the posy.
‘Pray continue, Father,’ said Bartholomew.
‘I think you ought to hear what he’s got to say first.’ Archie pushed past Sergey. ‘If he ain’t going to say it I’ll do it meself.’
‘This is preposterous. Who is this man?’ A shower of spittle caught in the light as Bartholomew snatched at her hand.
‘Sergey. Sergey Petrov.’ His name on her lips was like a kiss.
Colour flared high on Sergey’s cheekbones. ‘I might ask you the same question. Henry Bartholomew or Hal Waverley?’
De Silva brought his hand down on Father Brown’s arm. ‘I believe we should hear the man out.’
‘Too bloody right you should.’ Archie folded his arms across his chest, legs planted wide.
‘I will not have my wedding interrupted,’ Bartholomew blustered, his face turning a florid red.
‘Better now than later.’ De Silva turned to Archie. ‘Take the guests into the dining room. Mrs Duffen, please assist him. Catherine, sit down.’ De Silva pointed to one of the chairs lining the wall.
She sat, her knees barely able to support her weight. Her mind spiralled, then focused. What was Sergey doing here? And why was he waving a pistol around? What did he care if she married? He hadn’t spoken more than two terse words to her when she’d returned from Bathurst. Hadn’t stopped Rudi sending her away. Hadn’t cared enough to explain. Say goodbye even.
Gradually the crush of people diminished, taking with them their whisperings and murmurings until only she and Bartholomew flanked by Father Brown and De Silva remained. Opposite them stood Sergey. She couldn’t take her eyes from his face. The harsh set of his mouth, his concentration fixed on Bartholomew. It was as if he could see no one else.
‘Perhaps you’d like to give that pistol to me.’ Father Brown reached out a pale hand. ‘I’m certain we can reach a rational conclusion.’
Sergey cocked the pistol and pushed him aside. ‘And we shall.’ He brought the barrel up until it rested against the top button of Bartholomew’s silver waistcoat. ‘Recognise this?’ He prodded the pistol into Bartholomew’s chest. ‘Recognise it?’
Heat radiated from Sergey’s body, scorching her skin through the thin silk of her dress, the familiar salty tang of his sweat filled her nostrils.
‘It’s the pistol you used to kill Toombes. The pistol you planted in my brother’s room when you returned his coat, the coat you’d worn when you committed murder.’
Bartholomew let out a cry and sank down onto the chair beside her.
‘Sergey, please.’ No matter what Bartholomew had done Sergey couldn’t pull the trigger, couldn’t kill him.
He blinked, once, then twice as though he were seeing her for the first time. ‘Move away, Catherine.’
‘I will not.’ She stood and reached out her hand to the barrel of the pistol. Sergey’s breathing filled her ears. She tugged, his finger tightened on the grip. ‘Give it to me.’ She lifted his fingers, desperate to break his grip. ‘Sergey, give it to me.’
‘Murderers deserve to die.’
Murderer? Bartholomew was many things, none of them very pleasant, but surely he was not a murderer? Sergey must be mistaken.
De Silva stepped alongside her. ‘That is not for you to decide. It is a matter for the law.’
‘The law! What good is the law when an innocent man hangs?’ Sergey’s grip on the pistol tightened.
‘Sergey.’ If he pulled the trigger he’d be a murderer. He’d hang. No matter what he thought of her, Catherine couldn’t bear to see him hang. Not the man she loved. She’d live without him if she had to but not knowing he’d hung.
The pistol wavered and he lifted his gaze to her. His dark eyes bored into her, just as they had the first time he saw her at the circus, and her heart gave up every one of her secrets. The pent-up fury leeched from his eyes and his arm relaxed.
Now, it had to be now. Blood thundered in her head and her trapped breath whistled out between her lips. She clenched her fist and snatched at the pistol. It came away in her hand. Warm from his fingers. She clutched it to her chest.
Sergey’s shoulders shuddered and he looked up. ‘You can’t marry this man. He is not the man you think he is. He’s Hal Waverley, convicted forger, thief and murderer.’
‘The man is mad, insane,’ Bartholomew bellowed, his confidence restored no doubt because Sergey no longer had a pistol stuck in his chest. ‘He’s hounded me for years.’
B
artholomew’s babbling contained more than a grain of truth. Sergey did appear mad, demented even. Gone was the arrogant horseman and in his place a wild-eyed man making mad threats and waving a pistol.
‘Perhaps you should explain yourself.’ De Silva’s voice brought her back to the moment, cutting through the charged atmosphere. ‘We will move into the study. Bartholomew, would you lead the way.’
For once in his life Bartholomew did as he was asked and after throwing her a look, which lent more to tedium than anything else, he strutted into Pa’s study.
When she turned to follow Sergey’s hand came down on her arm. ‘You can’t marry him. He’s responsible for Tilly’s forged promissory notes, and God only knows how many more. Not only that, I know he is a murderer.’
Her head came up with a jump. ‘How do you know?’
Sergey shook his head and pinned her with a stare, despair and a strange triumph flickering in his eyes. ‘If I don’t get the chance know that I apologise. I mistakenly thought you were already married, committed to him.’
How could he think that?
‘Catherine, sit down, please.’ De Silva pointed to a chair and eased the pistol from her clawed grip. ‘Father Brown, Bartholomew, Petrov, sit.’
Refusing Sergey placed himself between her chair and Bartholomew.
De Silva sat on Pa’s chair and rested his folded hands on the desk, cradling the pistol. ‘Now, Petrov, perhaps you’d like to start at the beginning.’
‘This man is Hal Waverley. Convicted forger, pawnbroker, thief and murderer.’
The tips of Bartholomew’s ears reddened and a rash of sweat peppered his upper lip. ‘This is a simple case of mistaken identity. My name is Henry Bartholomew.’
‘Explain these?’ Sergey pulled the wad of promissory notes from his back pocket and threw them onto the desk. ‘They might jog your memory.’
Waverley’s eyes flickered. ‘Promissory notes.’
‘Forged promissory notes. Same as the ones in the goldfields. Look here, the pattern is incorrect.’
‘What is this slanderous accusation?’ Bartholomew’s voice changed, dropped a note or two, became more pompous. ‘I demand the constabulary be called. I have a reputation as a respected citizen.’
‘And as a forger and a cheat.’ Sergey added. ‘I wouldn’t do too much shouting if I were you. There are a lot of people holding promissory notes that the Union Bank won’t honour. Catherine can vouch for that. I’m sure Mr Noakes would be interested to know that his pillar of society is nothing more than a false façade.’
‘This is simply a small error on the bank’s part.’ Bartholomew tugged at his waistcoat and sat a little straighter. ‘It doesn’t make me a murderer.’
‘But this does.’ Sergey delved into his pocket again. He pulled out a large old coin, bent on one side.
Bartholomew croaked out a rough snort. ‘A bent coin? You’d be hard pushed to murder anyone with that.’
Sergey flicked it with his thumb; it spun in the air and landed on the desktop. Bartholomew’s hand snaked out and the coin disappeared into his fob pocket.
A look of triumph crossed Sergey’s face and he stilled. ‘You dumped Nikolas’s greatcoat in his room with the stolen goods in the pocket. The coat you wore when you murdered Toombes. You put the pistol under his bed but you couldn’t part with the Spanish dubloon, it was in your waistcoat pocket.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Bartholomew fingered the dubloon in his fob pocket.
Catherine’s throat dried, the coin, the irritating habit he had of tossing it in the air and snatching it back.
‘I’m talking about murder. A murder this man committed.’ Sergey pointed a dagger-like finger at Bartholomew’s chest. ‘With that.’
‘How did you come by this, Mr Petrov?’ De Silva’s fingers wrapped around the small pistol.
‘It was returned to me by the police after my brother hung. As next of kin I received his possessions.’
Bartholomew ignored Sergey’s comment and pinned De Silva with a flat stare. ‘I appeal to you as a man of reason, De Silva. We are here to celebrate my wedding and if that wedding does not go ahead, no matter what trumped-up charges this man tries to lay at my feet, I have a mortgage over this property. And I assure you I intend to call it in.’
‘Will this help jog your memory?’ Sergey pulled a large sapphire ring from his pocket. ‘The sapphire ring stolen from Toombes’s house, along with the dubloon, on the night you killed him.’
Catherine couldn’t contain her sharp gasp. The very ring Bartholomew had presented to her as a betrothal ring. If not the same, then so like it as to be its twin. The ring she’d refused on the night of Pa’s death. The one she hadn’t thought of since. ‘A sapphire ring,’ Catherine echoed. ‘Bartholomew?’
Bartholomew refused to meet her gaze. ‘Stuff and nonsense. One sapphire ring is much like another.’
‘The betrothal ring you offered me.’
Father Brown ripped off his stole. ‘There will be no wedding until the matter is resolved. God will not be mocked.’
De Silva’s eyes narrowed. ‘The full story, Petrov.’
An unnatural stillness descended on the room and a flicker of a relief crossed Sergey’s face. ‘My brother, Nikolas, was hung in Hobart Town for robbery under arms and murder on November the eighth 1846.’
‘A dimwit, more monkey than man … no great loss to anyone.’
Sergey took a step closer to Bartholomew, his fists clenched.
‘Petrov!’ De Silva barked.
‘My brother Nikolas was employed by Hal Waverley as a nightwatchman at his pawnbrokers in Hobart. He had a room at the back of the shop. The morning after the robbery Nikolas was arrested when they found that pistol under his pallet.’ He pointed to the pistol lying on the desk in front of De Silva. ‘It was used to murder Toombes. In the pocket of Nikolas’s greatcoat they found a pair of sapphire earbobs, a matching broach, a quantity of fourpenny pieces and two silver spoons. The matching sapphire ring and a Spanish dubloon were never recovered.’
‘The little strumpet stole that ring from my study.’ Bartholomew folded his arms and rocked back in his chair.
After a series of rapid-fire splutters De Silva barked, ‘Continue.’
Sergey turned his gaze back to Catherine. ‘Nikolas was a simple man. He was asked if the coat was his. He agreed. He said the pistol belonged to his employer, Hal Waverley, owner of the pawnshop. On that evidence he was arrested, stood trial and sentenced to hang despite the jury’s recommendation for mercy due to a lack of evidence.’
Bartholomew yawned. ‘None of this makes me a murderer or proves I was in anyway involved. Who is this Hal Waverley?’
‘But it does.’ Sergey turned to De Silva. ‘My sister, Valentina, recognised Bartholomew at the circus in Sydney and accepted his invitation to dine at his home in Macquarie Street. When she rejected his advances he abused her and locked her in his study. In his desk drawer she discovered the matching sapphire ring, missing from the evidence. She also found ten forged promissory notes dated 1846 drawn on the Union Bank, Hobart, and the Spanish dubloon Bartholomew now has in his waistcoat pocket.’
De Silva cleared his throat. ‘Why wasn’t Bartholomew questioned at the trial?’
‘Bartholomew didn’t exist then. Hal Waverley, convicted forger and pawnbroker did, but he’d upped and disappeared. One minute his shop was there, the next it was boarded up and empty. I scoured Hobart, all of Van Diemen’s Land. He’d vanished. It’s taken me five years to discover that Hal Waverley, the Hobart pawnbroker, had moved to Sydney and reinvented himself as Henry W. Bartholomew.’
Something snapped in Catherine’s mind and she leapt up. Excusing herself she pushed De Silva aside and rummaged through the top drawer of the desk until she found the letter Gatenby had delivered from Bartholomew all those weeks ago, before she’d run away. ‘What is the pawnbroker’s symbol?’
‘Three spheres suspended over a bar.’ De Silva frowne
d at her as she handed him Bartholomew’s letter carrying the imprint of his crest—three spheres over a bar and beneath the initials H.W.B.
‘I presume the W stands for Waverley?’ De Silva asked, his thumb tracing the remains of the wax seal.
‘I demand the magistrate be called.’ Bartholomew thrust out his jaw. ‘I have a long established reputation as a well-respected citizen and businessman.’
‘Father Brown, perhaps you’d be so kind as to fetch Archie.’ De Silva threw open the door, his lips twitching when Archie tumbled into the room. ‘Would you ride to Maitland and ask St John Le Grice, the magistrate, if I could impose on his good nature, as Bartholomew requested, and perhaps ensure he brings a couple of constables with him. Tell him it is in regard to the recent bulletin he received concerning the spate of Union Bank forgeries.’ He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and handed it to Archie. ‘Give him this and emphasise it is a matter of the utmost urgency. I’m sure you can explain the ins and outs.’
‘Too bloody right I can.’ Archie beetled out of the room and De Silva and Father Brown moved towards the window, heads down, deep in conversation.
Twenty-two
‘I have a proposition to put to you.’ Bartholomew spoke out of the side of his mouth and inclined his head in the direction of the window.
Why was he not surprised? The man was as slippery as an eel.
De Silva and Father Brown’s voices were nothing but a series of rumbles. Sergey stepped across the room. ‘What would that be?’
‘I think we can come to an arrangement that would be beneficial to us both. We need to speak privately.’
‘There’s nothing that can’t be said in front of Catherine. She has a right to know what is happening. You are to be married.’
At the sound of her name Catherine lifted her pale face, the desolation in her eyes chilled him. ‘We will not be married. Not now. Not ever.’
For a brief second his heart stilled—he wouldn’t have to imagine her on Waverley’s arm, in his bed, as his wife. Whatever the outcome of this night he’d die a happier man for that reason alone.
