The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  Was the one-eyed Cyclops a real man? Why did Orestes blind himself? Did Hamlet’s father really come back to trouble the living? Was it possible to see the dead? Had Dr Morgan seen his wife since she died?

  ‘I have indeed,’ Dr Morgan said. ‘In my mind I see her as clearly as I see you.’

  Sometimes Catherine thought that knowing more made life harder than ever. ‘The more I learn the more I realise I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘The sign of the true scholar,’ Dr Morgan said. ‘We shall make a philosopher of you yet.’

  Golden words, yet there were days when she would have liked to go back to being just Cat rather than the Catherine in whose skin she did not always feel at home. Maybe I’ll find it easier if I ever get to be a real lady, she thought, but doubted that day would ever come. At a distance and in the half light she might fool some but a true lady would find her out within minutes. Ladies did not roll their Rs. Ladies did not swear when vexed. They did not laugh uproariously when something amused them. Yet she could not go back either. Between them Dr Morgan and Mrs Hargreaves had modified not only her behaviour but everything about her. Maybe she wasn’t a real lady but neither was she that raw girl running barefoot through the streets of Porlock Town.

  Once she had thought that being able to read and find out new things would make her free. Now she knew that freedom was not so easily found, that it existed only in her ability to be truly herself, with no one to deny her, and that seemed as far away as ever.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Governor’s House was finished at last.

  It gave Catherine the oddest of feelings. At the beginning of her time at Aberystwyth the hillside behind the house had been an area of bush like any other, occupied by trees and the calling of kookaburras, by hot puddles of sunlight, the secrecy of an occasional snake in the golden dust. Even in those early days she had been drawn to its stillness, the grandeur of the eucalyptus trees rising about the shabby scrub, the dusty ground littered with fallen bark. On the rare occasions she had been able to escape from her duties at the house she had liked to walk there or better still stand in a silence only enhanced by the sardonic commentary of the big-billed birds. She stood on the sloping ground with the green flow of the supple river visible beyond the house below her and was at one with the land.

  Even then, it seemed, it was a place that she knew would become significant in her life. Then had come the loud-voiced men striding on hard heels this way and that, pointing, planning, giving orders. The convict labourers and guards came and the clearing began: the crash of felled trees, the smoke-stained air as scrub untouched since the beginning of the world was reduced to ash. When it rained the run-off formed black streaks down the side of the hill. While Cat, whom the convict Hawkins had told what was planned, watched.

  She did not know why she watched. Whatever was happening on the now-cleared ground above the house could make no difference to her. Except that she knew somehow that it would.

  The building, then. The purposeful courses of honey-coloured stone rose one above the other. The stone was solid; mortared in place it had a permanence amid the changing patterns of sunlight and rain. When the walls were no more than two feet high it was plain they would come to dominate this part of the landscape. Hawkins had told her the house would contain one hundred rooms; in her excitement she had doubled that figure when she had carried the news to Mrs Amos, but she knew now, watching from the edge of the cleared land, that the number of rooms did not matter. The significance of the building did not depend upon its size but on the way it had come to dominate not merely the hillside behind Cat’s place of work but her way of looking at things. The house being built for the governor of the colony was a symbol of all she hoped to achieve from her life in this land where she had arrived seven years before.

  On the day of her arrival in Van Diemen’s Land she had accepted the challenge of the future in this place of banishment and opportunity. On the day the golden building was at last complete she knew that in a way she did not yet understand her future would be intimately linked with the house and the authority over the colony that it represented.

  ‘Out of your mind,’ she told herself. ‘That’s what you are.’

  Yet another part of her mind knew she was not.

  The governor of the colony held a grand reception to mark the completion of the official residence that henceforth would be called the Governor’s House. Catherine stood in the darkness and watched the lights of the carriages as they drove one by one up the long drive. She had hoped the doctor might be invited so that he could tell her about it afterwards but he was not.

  ‘I am an old man, my girl,’ he said. ‘My day is past.’

  He didn’t seem to mind but Catherine thought it was unfair and said so. Not that it made any difference. And then one evening over brandy several months later Dr Morgan made an announcement, speaking so casually that he seemed to attach no great importance to it, which was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Joanne

  My impulse might have been to hurl myself at the intruder but I throttled it at birth. I had always been proud of my ability to control my impulses in moments of physical crisis; there was also the matter of the knife blade at my throat.

  ‘Do nothing foolish,’ the man said.

  I could see nothing of him but an outline. I could not place his accent or see his expression but there was no mistaking the determination in his voice.

  ‘I’ve got nothing worth stealing,’ I said.

  ‘Be quiet! Say nothing!’ He gestured with his knife. ‘Outside, and silently!’

  After such a nasty surprise it was pure pleasure to realise I was dealing with an amateur. Once in the open I would run and in the darkness there would be nothing he could do to stop me.

  I started to put on my boots.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘You needn’t think I’m going out there barefoot.’

  He didn’t like it but could do nothing about it. I put them on very slowly, giving myself as much time as I could to pull myself together, knowing that once I was out of the tent I would need to move fast. Finally I was ready.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Out!’ he said. ‘Be very careful!’

  He seemed to speak only in exclamations. Be quiet! Say nothing! Be very careful! Command English at its best. I thought he would have had a lot in common with Amaryllis Cottle, bless her sacred socks.

  I edged through the gash he’d made in the tent wall. It was bitterly cold outside with a frosty moon. My muscles tensed as I prepared to fling myself into the darkness, thinking only he’d better not have a gun, when I became aware of a big shadow standing in front of me. Not such an amateur after all. There were two of them and I remembered Wiranto’s words.

  Two men have arrived in Tasmania. They are known to us and have a name for being utterly ruthless.

  I was debating whether to make a dash for it anyway when the new man clamped his hand on my wrist. So much for that smart idea. There seemed no point screaming, either. Even if Colin woke up there was nothing he could do.

  I stood unmoving as the man who had woken me squeezed through the slit in the tent wall and I saw the moonlight shining on the knife. He pointed it at me.

  ‘Say nothing.’ It was barely a whisper but its menace was unmistakeable.

  The man who had been waiting outside the tent seemed to be in charge. He nodded at Mack the Knife and released my arm.

  ‘Come.’

  They moved silently away into the shadow of the timber and I, having no say in the matter, went with them.

  The night was a tangle of shadows and moonlight with rocks jutting through the soil and here and there the stumps of dead trees, yet my kidnappers walked swiftly and I knew they must have cased the joint thoroughly before grabbing me.

  I tried telling myself I was in no danger. The only explanation for this nonsense had to be the missing crown and I couldn’t see how killing me would help th
em. Persuading me to spill the beans was another matter. The truth was I had no beans to spill, but, as Wiranto had said, what if they didn’t believe me? I told myself not to think things like that. Heroine Joanne, super calm in the face of danger? Or terrified to the point of mental paralysis? Take a guess.

  Who were they, anyway? My money was on the Amir mob, otherwise known as the GKM, the Muar Independence Movement. I had never even heard of them until Dr Wiranto mentioned them. I hoped they would be reasonable men. They would ask where the crown was; I would explain that I didn’t know and that would be the end of it. The only problem with that scenario was that reasonable men did not kidnap you at knife point. Criminals did that. And Wiranto had said they were dangerous.

  Such cheerful thoughts… If a chance came to do a runner I would grab it but unfortunately they seemed to know that too and walked one in front and one behind me, each as close as skin.

  We walked for the best part of an hour, as far as I could tell heading due east into increasingly rough country, climbing steadily between boulders, with patches of pineapple grass and coral fern in the hollows. Neither man spoke; the only sounds our breathing and the padding of our feet over the frosty ground. Eventually we reached a small amphitheatre – a patch of grass ringed by stone, with patches of scree where over the millennia repeated exposure to frost and heat had pulverised some of the larger rocks. Here at last we stopped.

  The two men talked briefly to each other in a language I did not recognise while I wondered what was coming next. The man who had woken me had put away his knife but that meant nothing: he would have it out in an instant if he wanted. I was in a nasty situation, far from any possibility of rescue. If they wanted to do bad things to me I wouldn’t be able to stop them.

  This was the time to parade my martial skills but, unlike my ancestor, I had none to parade. No Maud Rout had taught me to fight and if it came to a rough-house I would certainly come off second best. It was therefore a considerable surprise when the taller of the two men turned to me and in very passable English asked if I would like a cup of coffee.

  I wasted no time being righteous about it. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Maybe it was the calm before the storm but it was cold in the amphitheatre and if they planned to take me to a hard place at least I would have something warm inside me when they did so.

  The man walked away into the darkness, returning a minute later with a backpack from which he took a bottle of water, a small gas stove and saucepan, a tin of instant coffee and two mugs. He fired up the stove and set water to boil. The stove gave a little light as well as heat and I saw they were both dark-complexioned, the big man clean-shaven, Mack the Knife with a small moustache. They were both young with stern expressions and the air of being able to handle trouble. I couldn’t be sure they were the men in Wiranto’s photos but I thought they might be.

  ‘We have no milk,’ said the big man.

  The water boiled. He spooned coffee into the mugs and added the hot water. The other man said something and he answered before smiling at me.

  ‘He ask where is his. I tell him he must wait. We have only the two cups,’ he explained.

  Now it was the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.

  ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’ I said.

  Coffee Cup Charlie countered my question with one of his own. ‘What do you know about the independent state of Muar?’

  ‘I hope you didn’t drag me all this way to give me a history lesson.’

  My sharp words seemed to amuse him. ‘We were warned you were a plain-speaking woman,’ he said.

  ‘If I lay a complaint with the police –’

  The man I had named Mack the Knife obviously understood English better than he spoke it. He spat out a succession of angry words but the other man waved him to silence, again laughing.

  ‘The police will not trouble us. There is no record we are even in your country. You do not know our names or anything about us. It is true that we have damaged your tent but what is a tent? You are not harmed, nor will be. You will tell us what we need to know, then you will be free to go. Or we will guide you back to your camp, if that is your wish. But my friend is right. We are wasting time. What we want –’

  ‘What you want is the crown of Muar but I have no idea where it is.’

  ‘You believe it is in this park.’

  ‘I personally don’t think so but –’

  Again the snarling interruption.

  ‘My friend say you are lying.’

  ‘Your friend is mistaken. My boss thinks it’s here and that’s why we’re searching but neither of us believes it.’

  ‘Why do you not believe it?’

  ‘Cat Haggard was a Hobart woman. Why would she come all this way to hide something she could conceal more easily closer to home? Assuming she ever had it at all.’

  The dark eyes watched me. ‘The crown has great symbolic value to my people. We shall not rest until we recover it.’

  He spoke as reasonably as ever but something is his tone set alarm bells ringing. I tried to read his expression but in the darkness that was impossible. Once again Mack the Knife spat his fierce words. At least I knew where I was with him; he would be happy to dismember me if it got him what he wanted. Or even if it didn’t.

  I thought about pain. I suspected I was not brave. Being tortured to reveal a secret I did not have was a dire prospect and I knew I would have to do something before it was too late. But what?

  ‘There is nothing in the journal that was found some months ago?’

  ‘You know there is nothing. I am sure you or someone in your organisation must have read it.’

  ‘What about the second journal?’

  Now he had shocked me. Who, apart from Averil and myself, knew of the notebook’s existence?

  ‘You say you know nothing yet you do not mention this second journal. We have to ask ourselves why.’

  Think, I told myself. For heaven’s sake think.

  The eastern sky was showing a hint of grey. Once it was light my chances of escape would be zero.

  ‘Why should I waste my time here if I knew where the crown really was?’

  He stirred impatiently. ‘That is the point. You are a professor at the university, a woman deserving respect. We do not believe such a person would waste her time looking for something she did not believe was here.’

  ‘I have already said –’

  ‘The problem, Professor, is that we do not believe you. I understand much of the second journal is written in some kind of code?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘You see we know a great deal about this business. I believe you have broken the code and are here because you know more or less where the crown of Muar is hidden. Maybe not precisely but close enough to make searching for it a practical proposition. I beseech you for the last time: share that knowledge with us and you will come to no harm. But my colleague is impatient. I cannot restrain him much longer and you will appreciate that serious interrogation tends to be unpleasant for all concerned.’

  It was hopeless. I could say what I liked and they would not believe me.

  ‘Then look over there.’ I spoke sharply, pointing over his right shoulder.

  Instinctively he turned to look where I was pointing. I gathered my legs under me and ran.

  Scalded cats never climbed a rock wall quicker than I did but Mack the Knife was quicker. How he managed it I hadn’t a clue but he was across the amphitheatre while I was still scrambling up the wall. His outstretched fingers even brushed my ankle but I dodged them and reached the top. Below me the slope was treacherous with the debris of weathered rock. I started down it but realised at once that if I tried to run I would fall. Do that and he would catch me. If I did not run he might catch me anyway.

  I had an idea, but with significant reservations. I told myself it had been ten years. Muck up and I was doomed. Do nothing and I was also doomed. I steadied myself, toes gripping the frozen ground through the soles of my boots. My
breath steamed. My heart was a drumbeat in my chest.

  He came up over the wall. He was ten paces away. For the second time that day I found myself thinking he’d better not have a gun.

  He stopped as he saw me. I think he may have smiled. I’d had time to grab a piece of stone from the ground. It was nicely rounded and fitted well in my hand. I remembered Averil’s words. The way that curve ball came in at me I almost wet my pants. I prayed to all the gods of baseball. I shouted at the top of my voice. ‘Let’s hear it for Randy Johnson.’ One of the top pitchers of all time. I wound up and let fly.

  It was hard to be sure but I thought I caught him in the throat. It was certainly effective: he went down like a collapsing wall. I thought the rock had hit him just to the right of his Adam’s apple. Just as well; any straighter and we’d have been talking corpses but he was flopping about and making strangled noises that were unpleasant to hear but at least proved he was alive. I didn’t waste time finding out how badly I’d hurt him. I took off down the slope as fast as I dared, the patter of sliding scree accompanying me all the way, until I came to a spinney of snow gums on the shores of a tarn. Here I paused and looked back. Little by little the light was winning over the darkness. Mack was still flailing about but I could see no sign of the second man.

  Now every shadow was a threat. The spinney was very small and in no time I had to choose: stay in the shelter of the trees and hope my kidnappers had written me off or keep going, with the light growing stronger by the minute. I gave myself a moment to think.

  Swimming across the tarn was out of the question; with the water temperature close to zero hypothermia would be guaranteed. To get back to Dixon’s Kingdom I would have to work my way around the shores of the tarn and head west across open country: an easy target if they had guns. On the other hand if I stayed put and they found me my prospects weren’t too bright either. I spun a mental coin. I went on.