by Darry Fraser
The man stepped up to the counter. ‘Morning, Mr Boyd. We haven’t met. My name is Mr Reiners.’ He placed the envelope on the counter.
Angus noted it had no address on it. ‘Mr Reiners, how can I help you today?’
The gentleman, slightly built, medium height and with forearms that were spotted with freckles, smoothed a hand over his sandy-coloured hair and cleared his throat. ‘It might not be a happy introduction, Mr Boyd. I should start by saying—’ he twisted to check the door, ‘—that I have been dabbling in photography, hereabouts. And I’m very keen on it, I might add, and I have a vision to make a career of it.’
Chrissakes. Was he about to try selling me some postcards of our back-of-beyond little town?
‘Wonderful to have a productive interest, Mr Reiners.’ Angus glanced at the clock. Mr McKenzie would be here in fifteen minutes, still in time for the handover before Angus could leave at noon.
‘Yes. However, in some circumstances, I feel the need to destroy the pictures once developed.’ He laid a hand over the envelope. ‘Others I feel I need to keep, or to sell, or to use otherwise.’
Ah. There it is. ‘Thank you, but I’m not authorised to purchase—’
‘I have in the envelope something that I thought I’d ruined—much to my chagrin—in my haste to record a disturbing incident. I thought I’d developed everything from a couple of weeks ago at Olivewood, and that somehow, because of my nerves at the time, I’d inadvertently spoiled these particular shots.’
Dabbles in photography. A couple of weeks ago. Olivewood. Feigning disinterest despite his sudden, rapid heartbeat, Angus said, ‘A lapse of concentration, perhaps?’
The man ignored him. ‘But here they are. I want to show these photographs to you. And I want you to know I still have the negative film.’
Angus reddened then frowned. ‘For what purpose?’ He grabbed at the envelope. ‘I should see them.’
Mr Reiners pulled it back. ‘Before you do—’ and once again he checked behind him, ‘—you need to understand that I am not a blackmailer,’ he said and lifted his hand from the envelope.
Angus felt a twist in his gut. He pulled the envelope towards him, lifted the unsealed flap and slid out four photographs, proofs in sepia. He stared at the first one. There was a man—no doubt his stupid bloody brother—with a woman over his shoulder, and in mid-stride, he was heading for the olive grove. There looked to be a little movement in the picture. Angus didn’t know anything of photography, but the blurring indicated Robert had indeed been running. The next picture, also with a little blur, was of another young woman running with a rod towards where Robert had thrown his captive to the ground. The third picture was of the O’Rourke woman with the rod, held over her head, appearing to be about to strike Robert, whose bulbous, bare backside was in the air.
Angus didn’t look at Mr Reiners. He closed his eyes and rubbed his chin. When he looked again, the last photograph showed the women standing, one with the rod still in her hand, over Robert’s body at their feet. He was on his face in the dirt.
Angus flicked the photographs back to Reiners. ‘It looks a terrible incident, indeed. Who are these people?’
Again, Mr Reiners seemed to ignore him. ‘Our only mounted constable is stationed at Overland Corner, as you would be aware. I’ve no idea when he will return here.’
Angus waited a beat. ‘It looks to me by these pictures, as if there’s a young woman who needs to go to gaol for a grievous assault.’
‘Do you think so? I think not. It looks to me as if there’s a man who needs to go to gaol for a grievous assault, Mr Boyd.’
‘From what’s in these photographs?’ Angus said with derision, but his heart still pounded.
‘There have been a couple, or more, disappearances of young women in this town. This man’s actions, captured here, might explain why—the women might have disappeared because he has done something terrible and has something to hide.’
Angus swallowed. Adeline. Still. He tapped the pictures. ‘They’re not proof of anything.’
Mr Reiners continued. ‘I had no evidence to show until I’d found the film. Luckily it was intact and I was able to develop it. On the strength of it, I think it would be very prudent of you to remove your brother from the town.’
The main door opened, and Mr McKenzie walked in, smoothing his great moustache, a contrast to the thinning pale brown hair on his head. He waved at Angus and went to the side of the bench to gain entrance behind the counter. He disappeared into the back room, removing his coat as he went.
‘Or what?’ Angus asked through his teeth.
‘Or I’ll simply go to the trooper with my proofs before he comes here. I was going to head off for a few days anyway, riding my bicycle to Waikerie and taking photographs along the way. It would be no great detour to go to Overland Corner.’
Angus glared at him. ‘And you’re not a blackmailer?’
‘As long as your brother leaves and never comes back this way, I have no need to hand these photographs over.’ Mr Reiners’s gaze held. ‘Why would I drag innocent young women into this?’
‘Bah,’ Angus scoffed, and looked down at the pictures. He kept his voice down. ‘They tell nothin’ to nobody. They’re useless.’
‘They tell—they show a man doing gravest harm to a woman, and that she is being defended by another. I, for one, am totally sickened by him.’
‘It don’t look like defence to me,’ Angus said. ‘It looks like attempted murder. She’s standing behind him with that iron bar.’
‘An iron bar, is it? Not just a rod, or a stick as it looks in the photograph, Mr Boyd? You were there, I believe. As was I.’
Angus began to feel the heat under his collar. ‘And even if you did go to the trooper, who’s gonna prosecute my brother on these?’ He tapped the pictures again. ‘Besides, no one else could tell who they are.’
Mr Reiners was calm and spoke with purpose. ‘That might be so, Mr Boyd, but you and I well know who they are.’
Angus leaned forwards, a curl on his lip. ‘How is it you’re so trustworthy, and won’t hand over the photographs any time you feel like it?’
Mr Reiners pressed on. ‘And, we all know that both those women are now missing.’ He slid the pictures back to Angus. ‘Out of town for Mr Robert Boyd, or new copies of these go to the constable at Overland Corner and he can sort it out,’ he said and placed his hat on his head and walked out.
Angus bunched his fists on the counter, hung his head, and barely held his temper. Bloody busy-body. But Reiners had the means to undo Robert, and Angus, because they’d all been at Olivewood on that day.
He heard the back door open and close. Mr McKenzie walked over, clapped him on the back. ‘Not having a good day, Mr Boyd?’
Angus sucked in a deep breath. Could the day get any worse?
He headed around the back of his brother’s house. If he was lucky, Myra might offer him some lunch, but in case she wouldn’t, he had a thick slice of bread and jam in a paper bag.
Parking his bicycle against the timber outhouse, Angus grabbed the bag and walked through the yard.
He peered into the cookhouse, but it was empty. The laundry tubs hadn’t been used this morning—no hot water in the boiler—so he assumed his sister-in-law was inside the main house.
‘Myra,’ he called at the open back door. ‘It’s me, Angus. Where are you?’ He stepped inside and spotted her slumped over the dinner table. He rushed over. ‘Myra?’
The sweet smell of sherry met him as she lifted her head and tried to focus bleary eyes. On a breathy smile, she said, ‘Hello, Angus,’ and managed to sit up by herself.
He stood back. He’d never really seen Myra smile before and that came as a shock to him as much as the fact that she’d clearly had a drink. A big drink at that. ‘What are you doing, drunk at this hour?’
She lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. ‘What hour?’ She frowned. ‘Are the children home?’
‘No.’ Angus didn’t think his
niece and nephew would be home any time soon; it was only the middle of the day. ‘You’d better pull yourself together. Where have you got the grog from? Has Robert got a stash of it?’
‘Robert? No,’ she scoffed. ‘The way he spends money on his loose women we’re lucky to have money for food.’ She folded her arms on the table and her head lolled.
Robert and his loose women was one thing. Angus supplied most of the family’s money for food. If the store had traded poorly for the month, his wages topped up the family’s grocery shop, and the children’s needs at school. Now he wondered if somehow, Myra had managed to squirrel funds away from Robert and buy herself a little tipple or two. Or more, by the look of things. ‘Where do you get the money to buy grog, Myra?’
Her bleary eyes shifted. ‘Robert.’
Angus knew that was a lie. ‘So where do you buy the grog—not from that despicable trader, Rowley, I hope.’
Rowley was a low scoundrel, plying his grog up and down the river. Some said it was a killer grog. The sooner the local Renmark district got their community hotel up and running, the better. Not that Myra would be allowed to drink in it. Hotels were no places for women.
‘Not Rowley,’ she said, disgusted at the mention of the name. ‘Mrs McMinn. She’s got a good drop. Fills me flask,’ she said and waved towards her sewing basket. The flask was dropped on top of her needlework, a piece that never seemed to come to an end. It was always in her sewing box.
Angus was astounded. ‘Mrs McMinn runs the brothel.’
‘Really truly, Angus,’ Myra said, mocking him. ‘I just like her sherry.’ Her head bobbed down onto her folded arms.
Angus couldn’t believe it of Myra. This straitlaced, sour-faced woman who married his brother was really doing business with a brothel madam. Beggared belief. Was beyond his comprehension at this point. He stared at her. A drunk for a sister-in-law …
‘Where’s the money come from to buy the grog, Myra?’ he asked again.
Her head came up and as she stared at him, she looked evasive, owlish. ‘I sell a few things.’ She waved at the sewing basket.
He never knew she sold anything out of that sewing basket. He went to it and rummaged beneath the same old piece that had been there, unfinished, forever. There was nothing under it. ‘What do you sell?’
‘Sold ’em all.’
‘Sold all what?’
Myra clamped her mouth shut, then said, ‘Thirsty.’ She went to stand but couldn’t manage it.
Angus filled a cup from a pitcher of water on the bench and slid it across the table to her. ‘How often does this happen?’
‘Havin’ a drink? Each time I find out he’s been chasin’ someone.’ She slumped, seemed tired all of a sudden. Took a slurp of water. ‘Thought you must’ve known who this time. Is why I came to the post office.’
‘Yes, thanks for that.’
‘Why you annoyed? Robert’s gone off God knows where, and I got no clue who she is this time.’ Again, there was that shifty look about her. ‘I always find them, Angus.’
He brushed that aside; he couldn’t care less about Myra’s detective work. ‘Mr Cutler from the wharf is thinking that maybe Robert’s stolen his horse. I wouldn’t be worrying about whether my brother goes off with some woman, that’s not an offence,’ Angus said. ‘But he could go to gaol for stealing a horse.’
‘Should be an offence,’ she said, her lip curling.
‘Then the gaols would be overflowing, Myra.’ He scratched his head. ‘Now tell me, if you have money hidden that could best be put to paying the bills and easing the strain on my wages—’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘You spent it all?’
‘No money,’ she insisted, and her head dropped to the table.
He checked her. Out to it. Angus decided that it was best if he left. He’d make a quick run to the store and see if she had raided the till. There was never much in it, a few shillings and pence to make some small exchanges. All the rest of the cash was put to paying for stock—they’d been refused credit—and paying for food on the table.
As he got on his bicycle, a thought struck him. He remembered those trinkets he’d found under his brother’s bed when he’d gone looking for a spare pair of boots.
Heading back inside, and past Myra asleep at the table, he went straight to their bedroom. Dropping to his knees by the bed, he reached under and located that loose floorboard. He felt for the box, pulled it out, and poked about in it. Sure enough the broach he’d seen before was gone. The earrings were still in place, as well as something else he hadn’t seen there before but knew. He picked it up. An ornate hatpin, about six inches long, and with a carved ivory handle. Its needle was the length of a small blade and was sturdy and strong.
His hand shook. This had been passed down to Adeline from her grandmother.
Thirty-one
Ard was galloping down the driveway, heading to Echuca and the doctor. Eleanor silently prayed that Dr Eakins was in attendance at his rooms, and not out on house calls, or other emergencies.
She’d wait for him to arrive, nothing more she could do for Lorcan now. Linley would need her more. She headed to Ard’s cottage.
Inside, Eleanor helped Linley off the floor, and had her kneel against the edge of the bed. ‘Rest there a minute, and keep your breaths coming in little puffs.’
‘It’s Toby, he’s grizzly,’ Linley said between pants.
‘I’ll look in on him.’
Eleanor crossed to the toddler’s room and rocked the cradle. Toby was a few months short of two years old and was a bonny child, curious and playful. Today she hoped the tiny dash of brandy would lull him. If they were lucky, the cries of a woman giving birth wouldn’t disturb him. His mouth was open and his eyes were fluttering at his dream.
Linley’s groan reached her from the room across the hall. Eleanor crept out.
In the hallway, she glanced through the open front door. CeeCee, Linley’s aunty, was giving her horse a gee-up as it pulled the little bobbing cart down the driveway. Ard would have given her news of Linley’s labour as he rode past and now CeeCee was hurrying, poor woman. CeeCee had been attacked early last year and had been left with a long recovery, but she was now able to get off the cart by herself, so Eleanor didn’t need to wait for her.
By the time she got to the bedroom door, Linley was hunched over the bed, her chemise damp with sweat. She turned her head and gave Eleanor a wan smile. ‘No one told me about this part,’ she sobbed between short puffs of breath. Linley was not Toby’s birth mother.
Eleanor took a deep breath and pushed aside all other thoughts. ‘No one would, dear girl.’ She moved quickly across the room. Kneeling, lifting Linley’s chemise and peering between her legs, she said, patting Linley’s back, ‘It won’t be long now, my lovely.’
Eleanor’s hands were clammy as she watched Dr Eakins rewind the bandages over the splint. The worry of what she’d found—infection on Lorcan’s leg—weighed heavily on her. It could mean amputation, and though the leg might have to go, it was by no means a sure thing that her husband would survive afterwards. She almost couldn’t bear to hear what the doctor was saying.
‘Perhaps a spider bit him in the tree. Not too poisonous, if it was. Doesn’t look like it’s doing too much harm.’
‘What?’ she asked, not trusting she’d heard correctly.
‘It’s not his broken bone that’s infected, my dear. It’s this.’ He pointed to a red lump just under Lorcan’s knee, now uncovered by the bandages being wound a little lower on his leg. ‘I’m not really sure what it is, it might even just be a splinter deeply lodged. Might have been what caused him to take that almighty leap out of the tree. Most annoying, and could still prove nasty, but we’ll pack a drawing ointment on it. You’re to change it every few hours and apply with heat. We’ll see what the next few days brings.’
Dr Eakins bent to peer over the red and angry site. He prodded it and a little liquid popped to the surface. He presse
d gently as more oozed out and he wiped it away. Opening a tin of ointment, he dipped a finger and slathered a thick spread over the bite, and using a clean swathe of bandage, he wrapped the knee. He slapped the tin on the table beside their bed.
‘Then we must work out why the man refuses to wake up.’ He leaned to Lorcan’s ear. ‘Time to get up, old bean,’ he said kindly. ‘You’ve a new grandchild about to appear.’
Eleanor was still taking in what he’d said to her. Not his broken bone that’s infected. She stared at Lorc, his face composed, although pale. After she’d sponged him down on the doctor’s request, his fever had lowered.
‘Still, best we try to let him come out of it by himself. Seems he might have slipped into a coma, after all. Only time will tell. Come get me any time, my dear.’ He stood up, snapping his bag closed. ‘And now I’ll go to the other house to see if Miss CeeCee has coaxed that baby out.’
Shaking with a relief that hadn’t fully taken hold, Eleanor wiped her damp hands on her dress. She took one last look at her sleeping husband, not wanting to leave him, and gave thanks that he might still come back to her. After hesitating for a time, she followed the doctor out, her heart much lighter.
Tramping across the bare patch of dirt between the two occupied houses, Eleanor glanced at the third, unfinished house a little further on. Sam had been working on it when he’d left to search for Maggie. Her heart ached anew. She knew the lad still hankered for her daughter, despite what he’d said the day he left. He was building the house with hope that she’d come home, to him.
Her beautiful, headstrong, opinionated daughter was no match for the unflappable Sam. Whatever had happened between them, Eleanor was sure it was Maggie’s fault. Lorc had always assumed it was Sam’s fault. Of course they’d sided with Maggie, but the lad was a good man and they’d agreed—if Maggie ever found her way back to him, and he to her, he’d make a fine son-in-law. They’d left them to their own devices, but so far, to their knowledge, nothing had happened. Then Mrs Chaffey’s letter had arrived telling them Maggie was missing.
