Shadow of the Osprey: The Frontier Series 2

by Peter Watt

  In his early thirties, Daniel was tall, clean shaven and slightly stooped by his years of academic study. But he had the Duffy trademark for toughness in his professional dealings and was grudgingly respected by even a waspish colonial society that normally looked down on the Irish.

  His face reminded many of his cousin Michael Duffy; the same grey eyes and handsome features – albeit less marked than Michael’s face – battered by his short career as a bare knuckle boxer. Many would also describe Daniel as a serious fellow who rarely smiled. But it was known to the Irish patrons of the Erin that there was a heathen curse on the family and it was no wonder the lawyer rarely smiled.

  After years of exposure to the Duffys, Francis Farrell had become an unofficial member of the clan. Had it not been for his non-intervention in Michael’s escape from Sydney back in ’63, then the young man might have dangled at the end of a rope for a killing that was not his fault. The vagaries of jury decisions could well have found Michael Duffy guilty of murder when he had, in actual fact, killed Jack Horton’s brother in self-defence.

  Daniel sat at the table toying with a tumbler of rum. He was smartly dressed in a three-piece suit that marked him as a senior member of the legal firm of Sullivan & Levi – Solicitors. One day he would be a partner. That is, if he did not choose to enter politics as many would like him to do, given that he had another trademark of the Duffys – a quiet charisma.

  Sergeant Farrell was dressed in his heavy serge uniform and his hat lay on the table between the two men. ‘I swear if a ghost had jumped out at me from the page I would not have blinked,’ he said and took a long swig of his tot of rum. ‘The name was there all these years under our noses.’

  ‘Morrison Mort,’ Daniel hissed. ‘He was the boy in that murder case you used to scare us kids with all those years ago. It was his mother that was murdered.’

  ‘Don’t know why I even bothered looking up the report,’ Farrell sighed. ‘Must have been the ghost of young Rosie who was guiding me to the archives.’ He glanced self-consciously at Daniel. Admitting ghosts might exist was blasphemy to the policeman’s creed of only believing in those things of the temporal world. All else was speculation for priests and women. ‘But then,’ he added quickly, ‘it made sense to look up old Sergeant Kilford’s notes. Same trademark in the same place. Too much to be a coincidence on its own.’

  Daniel frowned. It was absurd to think that a boy barely ten years of age could have the mind or motivation to carry out such a hideous crime. It was a case that had frightened and thrilled him and his cousin Michael. Both boys would beg the big policeman to tell them about the gory goings on in the world of crime. And Francis Farrell was a born storyteller. His description of the mutilations – although veiled in the telling – had caused the two boys to have goose bumps and nightmares. Now the same story had resurrected those goose bumps of his youth. ‘Could it be . . . ’ Daniel trailed away as he tried to comprehend the almost incomprehensible evil in a child. It was even recognised as a legal impossibility in his own profession. A child under ten was deemed as incapable of mens rea, the Latin term for the concept of intent. He glanced at the police sergeant for an answer.

  ‘He was present then,’ Farrell shrugged. ‘And I know his ship is back in Sydney now.’

  ‘But could he . . . ’ Daniel paused as he attempted to understand the full horror of what might have happened years earlier. ‘. . . God almighty! A boy could not have the mind to inflict so terrible a death on his own mother. It has to be impossible. Even for Mort!’

  ‘A couple of my informants tell me a sea captain was seen in The Rocks around Rosie’s place the night she was killed.’

  ‘Did they say it was Mort?’ Daniel asked, his professional interest aroused.

  Farrell shook his head. ‘Didn’t – or don’t want to – recognise him. They said it was too dark to make out his features.’

  Both men well knew the reluctance of The Rocks’ residents to be involved in any police investigation. It was a place closed to official scrutiny by the law, and information from residents could only be obtained by bribe or threat, neither of which was a reliable means of gathering evidence for a court of law. ‘If you are thinkin’ we might bring him in for questioning,’ Farrell continued, ‘I doubt that we would get him to confess. He’s got the luck of the devil himself.’

  Daniel impatiently waved off the suggestion. ‘I know the problems Sergeant Farrell,’ he said. ‘All Mort has to do is deny his involvement and without witnesses you would be hard pressed to present a case.’

  Farrell glanced down at his empty tumbler. ‘I know what he has done to the family but we still have the law for the likes of him,’ he growled. ‘However we can pay him a bit of attention while he’s in Sydney Town. He might even go after another girl.’

  Daniel shuddered at the last statement made by the police sergeant. How many poor souls would the demonic killer wrench from living bodies before he was brought to the gallows? ‘Pray that it is not someone we love,’ Daniel said softly.

  Mort sat in his cabin staring at the straight-bladed infantry weapon lying unsheathed on the chart table amongst the maps. It had been with him since ’54 when he had won it in a game of cards from an unlucky young officer destined to storm the Eureka Stockade. The blade was oiled and ready to be returned to its scabbard to be hung once again on the wall of the small cabin.

  Mort reached out and ran his fingers along its length. If only he had the sword at his side when he had killed the whore. Oh, she would have screamed like the others had in the past. Like the nigger girls from the police barracks when he had been an officer in the Native Mounted Police. And the brown-skinned beauties he had taken from the Pacific islands as a blackbirder. They had all screamed for their lives, begged him for the mercy that was not his to give to the species of creature that had caused him so much pain as a child living with his prostitute mother in The Rocks. But she was dead, her filthy mouth that had laughed obscenely at his pain, mutilated by a knife. And that unspeakable part of her that gave pleasure to her customers torn apart by the same knife so that it could never give pleasure again.

  Carefully, Mort sheathed the silver blade in its scabbard, and held it in his arms as he crooned a tuneless song. They would never lead him to the gallows. The old Aboriginal who came to him in his dreams had told him so. No, he would meet the white warrior of the cave and only then would his fate be decided.

  Mort grinned, his handsome features contorted into a grimace. He shrugged off the old Aboriginal’s assuredness that the white warrior would be the cause of his demise. No living man had that power. Neither heathen white warrior nor civilised lawyer would ever be the cause of his demise. Not when his sword was unsheathed.

  He rose and placed the sword on the rack over his bunk. He would not be needing it tonight. The matter of his first mate’s severance from the company was even now hopefully being settled.

  Hilda Jones was as hard as the men who sought board at her establishment. She was also a big woman, big enough to intimidate most of the boarders who stayed under the roof of her run-down boarding house at the edge of the infamous Rocks.

  Hilda had little time for the traps. But it had been her message to Detective Kingsley that had brought the policeman somewhat reluctantly to the front door of her establishment.

  There was a man bleeding his life away in one of her rooms. And she wanted him out. She had tried to get the badly wounded man to leave but the knife that he flashed – and the evil in his eyes – made her think twice. He had demanded that she fetch a police detective to talk to him. Not one of the beat police, but a detective. Well, at least now the traps would deal with him and rid her of his worthless carcass.

  The detective followed the broad back of the woman as she waddled down a narrow fly-specked hallway to a room at the back of her boarding house. He tried not to gag at the putrid and overpowering smells of boiled cabbage, urine and vomit. The stench seemed to fill the air like some ghost of a long-dead boarder.
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  ‘’e come in las’ night wid ’is guts ’angin’ out,’ she said as she pushed open the door to the tiny room. From a single iron bed with a blood-soaked mattress on sagging springs, a man turned his pain-filled face towards the door. The movement caused him to grimace. ‘At least ’e’s paid up to today,’ Hilda Jones said with some relief. ‘From the look of ’im he ain’t goin’ to see tomorrow.’

  Detective Kingsley peered into the semi-gloom of the room which had only a broken window high in the wall for ventilation and light. The dirty wooden floor under the cot was thick with blood that had pooled into a dark stain. Skulking rats scurried away to places that only they knew; they would return when the intruders had departed.

  ‘You a trap?’ the dying man asked in a hoarse whisper. He was thirsty from a combination of blood loss and a hangover.

  Kingsley said he was and the man asked for water to quench his raging thirst. Hilda was reluctant to leave the room, half of which her massive bulk occupied. She was curious as to why the man had demanded to see a police officer. But Kingsley spoke harshly to the landlady and she left to fetch the man a drink. The detective moved closer to the bed so that he could hear the barely whispered words of the dying man. ‘Me name’s Jack Horton an’ I know I’m dyin’. Must be, to be talkin’ to a trap on me own accord,’ the man rasped hoarsely, trying to cough. But no sound came from his dry throat and his shoulders heaved, causing the blood to flow even more heavily.

  ‘What happened Mister Horton?’ the detective asked with a note of respect, although he suspected that Horton was a man with some kind of long criminal record. It was obvious that the man might have a lot to say before he departed this world and all good police were natural agents of intelligence gathering.

  ‘Don’ matter what ’appened anymore. Jus’ say I was a bit slow an’ the other bastard a bit fast. Maybe some day ’e will end up like me.’ The words came painfully. His adversary’s knife had slit the dying man from hip to chest. ‘What I want you ’ere for is to tell you ’bout a treacherous bastard who set me up to die like some stuck pig. An’ me bein’ ’is first mate an’ all. I knows he was behind me killin’ as sure as I knows me name is Jack Horton.’

  Kingsley was losing interest. So the man just wanted to squeal on a mate who had probably deserted him during one of the many knife fights in The Rocks. It was unlikely the police would ever find his killer.

  Horton could see the detective’s lack of real interest in him. But he knew how to get his attention. ‘You ever ’ear of Lady Enid Macintosh?’ he asked in a whisper.

  Kingsley showed immediate interest. Yes, he had read of the Macintosh family from time to time in the newspapers. They were powerful, influential people in the Colony. ‘Yair, I’ve heard of her,’ he replied. The dying man’s expression showed pleasure at the fact the name had caught the detective’s attention. ‘Big nob in Sydney,’ the detective added.

  ‘Yair, well, I’m gonna tell you some things, that will make yer ’air stan’ on edge. ’bout the Macintoshes, an’ the bastard Morrison Mort that works for ’em. Matter of fact, I’m goin’ to tell you a lot of things before I go. So youse better start takin’ notes . . . ’

  Before he died Jack Horton revealed all he knew to the detective who listened like a man stunned by a blow to the back of the head. Horton’s motive for telling what he knew was simple: to revenge himself on Mort whom he suspected was behind the sudden ambush in an alley behind the hotel where he had been drinking. For some time he had been uneasy. Something about his captain’s aloofness had warned him treachery was afoot. No, Jack Horton was not making a death-bed confession to ease his conscience. He was taking a final act of revenge on the people he had always hated for their manipulative power.

  Kingsley was glad that he had closed the door against the nosy landlady. What the dying man had told him in confidence was information that had to be carefully evaluated for its monetary worth. It was information that could be of great assistance in establishing friends in the right places. The call to Horton’s death bed was one of the luckiest things that had occurred in all his years of policing Sydney’s seamy streets. There was certainly a silver lining in every cloud! Even in run-down boarding houses in The Rocks!

  ELEVEN

  As he rode out of the rising sun, Kate paused to glance at the approaching horseman. All she could see however was a tall man framed by the fiery glow. The glare hurt her eyes so she returned to packing the cooking pots into a box under the wagon and dismissed the horseman as just another traveller heading for the Palmer River.

  Ben, Jenny and Willie had gone down to the creek to fetch water for the trip while the Chinese under the command of John Wong were moving out onto the track and already heading south. The horseman would probably overtake them very soon, Kate thought idly.

  The departing Chinese laughed and waved to Willie who watched them from the banks of the creek. He was disappointed that they were taking their precious supply of candied ginger with them and was tempted to run after them and ask for more of the sweet. But he sensed that he could not leave Ben alone with his mother. She had been acting very strangely since the previous evening.

  ‘Hello Kate. Don’t you own a dress?’

  Startled, Kate swung around, dropping the pots on the ground. With the rising sun still at his back the horseman seemed to tower over her. She had not heard him approach and shaded her eyes to focus his face. For the first time in her life she saw the full extent of the scar that ran from the corner of his eye down his cheek.

  ‘Luke!’ she gasped. ‘You no longer have your beard!’

  ‘Yeah,’ the tall American replied, with a slow smile on what Kate thought was the most wonderful face of any man she had ever known outside the men of her family.

  ‘Beards aren’t all the fashion back home.’

  She began to cry, although without knowing why. Nevertheless it felt so good to cry!

  Luke flung himself from the saddle to go to her side but she waved him away angrily. ‘Why didn’t you write?’ she sobbed bitterly. ‘You just ride out of our lives. Six years and not a word. Why?’

  Luke hung his head and stood self-consciously wringing the brim of the broad felt hat in his hands. He had not expected this reaction from the woman he had dreamed of seeing again for so long. He’d thought that maybe she might be mildly annoyed. But not tears and anger. ‘I didn’t think you cared,’ he mumbled. ‘I just didn’t seem to get around to writing, that’s all.’ Kate did not reply but turned to stoop and pick up the pots and pans. He bent to help her. ‘I’m truly sorry Kate,’ he said, placing his hand over hers.

  Kate sniffed defiantly and used the long sleeve of her shirt to wipe away the tears. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, as she stood with a handful of pots. ‘It was just that the Cohens were concerned for you, more than anyone else.’ Luke placed his hat on his head and turned away lest she see the pain in his face. ‘Why did you come back?’ she asked, as he strode towards his horse.

  He paused in his stride and turned to face her. ‘Heard about the Palmer while I was in the Montana territory,’ he replied bitterly, disguising his pain. ‘Realised some other bastard had discovered my river of gold. Had to come back to see if any was left. That’s the only goddamn reason I came back!’ He lied to protect himself. To have travelled so far only to have Kate reject his love was more than he could face.

  ‘I see,’ Kate whispered. ‘You are welcome to travel with us,’ she said in a louder voice. ‘That is, if you wish to return to Cooktown for any reason.’

  ‘I might,’ he growled. ‘As a matter of fact I do have some unfinished business back there. The Palmer can wait for a while.’

  ‘Then tether your horse to the wagon and walk with me,’ Kate said with less anger in her voice. ‘You can tell me where you have been for the last six years. And how you came to be on the track.’

  Luke nodded and led his horse to the wagon. ‘Told you Kate. I was going to have a look at my river of gold, that’s all.’ He
thought he could see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes at his answer. But it was not likely, he told himself. ‘You know, I almost got to the Palmer six, maybe seven years back,’ he said tethering his horse. ‘Just bad luck and a bad case of the fever drove me south. But I met a poor bastard who got there. Can’t remember his name. Buried him with a myall spear in his leg, out beyond the hills south of here,’ he said with a wave of his arm. ‘Things might have been different if I had pushed on,’ he added wistfully. ‘I might have got rich. But that’s all past.’ And you might have seen me as more than a down-and-out prospector, he reflected sadly to himself.

  Goddamn you Luke Tracy, Kate thought angrily as she took in the outline of his face. Goddamn you for just coming and going in my life. It was all too confusing, her feelings an untidy mess which could only be sorted out when time allowed. For now she had the task of getting her two wagons back to Cooktown. People other than Luke required her attention for the moment. It was not the time or place for her to explore what she felt for the man she had always tried to deny she loved.

  Although Luke walked with Kate beside the bullock wagon little was said. For Luke, talking was one of those things people did when they had nothing better to do with their lives. Besides, he had a personal score to settle with the man who had caused his flight to America. Before his departure from Cooktown, Luke had learned that a Rockhampton solicitor by the name of Hugh Darlington was scheduled to visit and consequently the American’s brooding thoughts did not make him very talkative. Especially since he was focused on the deadly confrontation he planned with the man he had since come to learn was once Kate’s lover.

  That evening they camped by the track. Luke assisted Ben in unyoking the bullocks and hobbling them for the night while Kate and Jenny prepared the evening’s meal.

  The awkward silence between Kate and Luke created a tension not lost on Ben. He had never known his boss to be so unsettled and aloof. He had heard from his aunt Judith how the American had been such an important part of the young Irishwoman’s life. His aunt had even ventured that Kate loved Luke Tracy. ‘But that she refuses to admit as much to herself,’ his aunt had sighed.