The Good Woman of Renmark

by Darry Fraser

  He scooted the bicycle around behind the store and leaned it up against the back wall. They hadn’t enclosed a yard; most of their merchandise was small stuff, and was kept inside the building. The store wasn’t crammed any longer—lack of credit had put an end to buying much. Angus supposed it wasn’t a bad thing. It was all paid for, this lot, and if it burned, so what? He couldn’t remember if stock was even covered by insurance. Didn’t matter. Any which way, debts would be cleared by the pay-out.

  Twisting his key in the lock, he let himself in and headed for the retail counter. He found the tub of discarded candles, their wicks just holding on to puddles of firm wax. Another chore Robert’s kids hadn’t been put to yet—to save the wax and remake another candle from the scraps. He selected one with a short wick with barely any wax, good enough for his purpose. A book of matches was in there too.

  Robert kept old newspapers that had come from other towns. Angus ducked behind the long bench and there they were. This would be easier than he thought.

  Standing in the shadowy space, he checked his plan again. Nah, no regrets. The place was a tinder box anyhow. He crumpled up sheets of the newspaper and nestled the candle into it, gouging out a scrape to expose the rest of the wick. He lit a match and, holding it a moment, he thought about how much time he’d have to get to the back door and lock it. He studied the wick briefly. Plenty of time. He put the flame to it and it caught and burned sturdily. It was going to work.

  Swiftly, silently, at the back of the store, he stepped outside and turned the key, locking up. He waited a few moments. The faintest waft of smoke reached his nostrils. Good.

  It would be best to have folk see him somewhere public now. He’d go via the wharf. He could be checking on freight they were expecting. Perhaps Robert hadn’t collected the last lot Myra had told him to pick up. He’d ask around. The more people who saw him out and about while the store burned, the better.

  And just maybe, maybe he’d see if that O’Rourke chit was around. He grabbed the bicycle and rode off.

  Forty

  Sam saw Barney Cutler trudging back towards the wharf. ‘Mr Cutler.’ He ran to meet him.

  The bushy eyebrows rose as he focused on Sam. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I called in the other day asking about the Lady Goodnight.’

  ‘Ah yeah, I remember, young fella. Do for ye?’

  Sam fell in alongside Cutler as they headed for the hut. ‘Heard that Robert Boyd was back in town after being out a night or two.’

  Cutler rounded on him. ‘Three nights, the bastard, and nearly killed me horse. I just been lookin’ for him. He ain’t at his store. I know where he lives, but I don’t wanna upset his missus, the poor woman, when I have to say a few words.’ He kept walking until he got to the hut. ‘The man’s a bloody waste o’ time.’

  Sam stopped at the door. ‘If he’s not at the store, I might go see if his brother knows where he is. Post office, right? Where is it?’

  Cutler waved a hand. ‘Down the town. Sign says post and telegraph office, and it’s got a striped iron verandah roof. Can’t miss it.’

  Sam glanced back towards the boat. Wondered how long he’d have. ‘Is it far? I have to leave on the boat for Mildura.’

  ‘Young fella like you, not far. Nary a minute or two.’ Cutler opened the door, nodded as he went inside. He turned and closed the door.

  Big help, Barney. Sam stood for a moment and gazed around. Which direction? He’d have to ask someone else. He’d just started off when he heard the door behind him open almost as soon as it’d been closed.

  ‘I just seen him as I closed the door,’ Barney said, pointing ‘That’s him there on that by-cycle. That’s the brother, Angus Boyd.’

  On the boat, Maggie spotted a man she recognised riding a bicycle and heading in the direction of the wharf. She shrank back against the cabin. She didn’t want to be seen by slimy Angus Boyd.

  Peering out, she saw Sam speaking to that Mr Cutler. Then he pointed, and Sam turned his head to watch as Angus glided down the gentle incline heading for the wharf. Sam called out to Angus, who slowed, his feet skidding on the ground. He stepped off, the bicycle by his side. Words were traded. Sam’s hands bunched to fists. Then Angus thrust the bicycle away, and it dropped to the ground. His arms flew in the air. Sam stabbed a finger at him, and Maggie could see their angry faces, could hear the shouts, but couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Dane clambered down from the wheelhouse. He’d sent the telegram to her parents—she was relieved at that—and had returned earlier from the post office, much pleased to see his cousin still on board. Now he stopped on the deck beside her. Joe stepped onto the gangway, trying to get a better look.

  ‘What is it?’ Maggie asked. ‘What’s going on? I can’t hear properly.’

  ‘Looks like Sam’s holding his own. That’s not what’s worrying me. You see it, Joe?’

  ‘Big smoke coming from the town, boss.’

  A billowing column of smoke rolled in the air. Men on the wharf leapt upright, shouting alarm. They downed tools and threw freight to the ground. Horses’ reins were tied tight to the rails, the carts braked and wheels hurriedly chocked. The men ran to grab buckets and tore up the incline heading for the town.

  ‘Don’t follow them, Sam,’ Dane muttered as he watched.

  Maggie could hear that, and then heard his dismay when Sam shoved Angus Boyd out of the way and bolted after the other men. ‘Dammit. Come on, Joe. More hands, the quicker the fire’s out—’ Dane stopped abruptly. ‘Maggie, look after the boat. Get a rod from the engine room and stop anyone coming on board. Better yet, do you know how to use a rifle, a Martini-Henry?’

  Worried now, she nodded. ‘Out of practice but—’

  ‘It’s in the wheelhouse, on the wall. Bullets boxed in a compartment underneath. Any trouble, just fire a round or two into the air. Don’t kill anyone, you hear me?’ Dane pulled his hat a little lower. ‘Where’s that dog when you need him, eh? He wouldn’t let anyone on board.’

  Then he and Joe sprinted up the hill, ignoring Angus. She should have told Dane who the man on the bicycle was. She thought it odd that Angus Boyd had silently watched them as they ran past him, making no attempt to go back to the town. He just stood there, observing. Then turned his gaze and saw her.

  She took off for the wheelhouse.

  Forty-one

  Maggie raced up the steps, her skirt and pinafore hitched, her boots clanging on the iron slats. She swung into the wheelhouse, yanked the rifle out of its brackets, and scrabbled around in the compartment for a bullet. Cracking the gun lever down, she slid the cartridge into the chamber and snapped the lever back, then grabbed another couple of bullets and dropped them into her pinny pocket. It looked like Angus Boyd hadn’t got the guts to step onto the gangway. Not yet anyway.

  Her hands shook. Her legs shook. Her jaw shook. Sweet Lord, did she have to aim a gun at someone—and shoot it? She’d only ever shot at rabbits for practice with her pa and her brother. Her father had taught her how to use a gun for her own safety—snakes in the house, or foxes around the chicken coop. Not for shooting people.

  She should run for it. Blast what Dane had said about not leaving the boat—if Angus Boyd came on board after her, she’d have nowhere to hide. She couldn’t jump overboard—she’d have to run.

  His bicycle discarded partway down the dusty path to the wharf, Angus Boyd was a few yards from the landing. He looked back over his shoulder.

  She swallowed. No one was coming, that was clear. Then he turned and took a step or two, squinting up at the wheelhouse, and stopped. He couldn’t see her, but his voice rose up. ‘You stay right there on that boat. My brother’s none too happy with you, missy.’ Angus’s voice had a quiver in it. ‘You tried to kill him. We got photographic proof.’

  She dashed to the open window of the wheelhouse. ‘You get the hell away from this boat,’ she shouted, and dashed back hiding again. ‘I did no such thing and you know it. He attacks defenceless women,’ s
he yelled. She was desperate to see where he was, at the same time she didn’t want to see.

  ‘You never looked defenceless to me,’ he called. ‘Put the gun down. Got something to discuss with you. I’m coming on board.’

  She rushed back to the window in time to see him step onto the gangway. ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ she cried, and aimed the gun at him.

  He stood stock still. ‘Have you loaded it, dear Miss Maggie?’ he asked, the derisive sneer unmistakeable.

  I’m not the fool here, you toad. The gun felt light in Maggie’s hands.

  ‘I only want to talk business with you.’ A whine crept into his voice. ‘I need you to pay me a little something for keeping those photographs to myself.’ He took a step.

  Maggie pointed the rifle skywards and fired. Oh my God, my ears. Pain filled her head. Fingers shaking madly, she reloaded and fired again.

  The heat coming out of the building was intense. Sam handed bucket after bucket of water up the line with the other men. Next to him, Bert worked as hard as any, head and shoulders above the others. Throwing buckets full of water at this inferno seemed too little too late.

  Fire roared inside the building, tearing down everything in its path. The windows blew out, and fresh surges of flame and heat burst onto the street.

  Then a shout came from behind. ‘No more water, fellas. The cart’s empty, horse trough’s empty. Bastard’s too far gone now to try stop it, anyhow. Pull back. Let her go.’

  The line broke up as men fell back from the front of the building. The flames inside raged on, and trusses and wall timbers crashed to the ground. Fire flew, licking high and low, and smoke curled out of the broken windows, swirling over the roof and above the flames that poked through. The roar of the inferno was fierce, and then as quick as it stormed, it died. The brick façade at the front was scorched, mortar had already crumbled away, and heat pulsed off it. A loud crack or two, and a last tumble of damaged timber, then the silence was eerie.

  The house next door had been saved but smoke had filled the place, sending the occupants coughing and gagging into the street.

  Standing back with the other men in safety on the opposite side of the street, Sam wiped smoke-filled tears as they streamed from his eyes. Hot soot stung his hands and his scalp. Bert slapped himself down, grinning over at him as he stomped on stray embers. Sam bent over, hands on his knees and tried to take clean air into his lungs. He hoped to Christ nothing else would go up in flames. They were too far from the wharf for boats to catch fire, but the danger of runaway flames was ever present, always on people’s minds, and they had an empty water cart.

  ‘Young fella, young fella,’ Mr Cutler rasped, hobbling up to him, waving his hand urgently. He got to Sam, gripped his forearm and went down on his knees in the dirt, gasping for breath. ‘Hurry. Get to ye boat. There were gunshots.’ The old fella was breathing hard. He must have run up from the hut.

  Dane and Joe swung in by Cutler’s side. Dane grabbed him before he toppled off his knees. He looked at Sam. ‘I told Maggie to shoot off a couple of rounds if she got in trouble. I’ve got the old man. Go.’

  Joe slapped Sam’s shoulder hard. ‘I’ll be right behind ye, lad.’

  Sam took off. Maggie and a gun. Jesus.

  Forty-two

  Angus had bolted off the gangway at the shots and raced to grab his bicycle. His boot caught a jutting rock in the road and down he went, hard, sprawling. Staggering to his feet, clutching at a sharp pain in his side, he bungled trying to pull the contraption upright. He saw a man appear at the top of the incline and panicking, he tripped, fell heavily again. The pain. Shit. Must have snapped a rib … Scrambling up, he hopped and hobbled with the bicycle, partly lifting it, partly dragging it, along the river’s edge.

  Short of breath, pain tight in his chest, Angus couldn’t ride; he could barely walk upright. He dropped the bicycle by a neighbour’s fence and staggered on to Robert’s house, closer to the wharf than his. He could sit down there. No one would find him.

  Lurching inside, his niece … Whatshername—God, his head was foggy—was standing over a seated Myra and dabbing a cool rag over her mother’s head.

  ‘Uncle Angus,’ she cried as he pitched to the floor.

  He rolled onto his back, a hand over the pain in his chest.

  Myra cautiously got out of the chair, and leaned over him. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  His breath wouldn’t come. ‘Store is burned,’ he wheezed, his gaze on Myra.

  ‘What?’ Myra snapped. ‘Marcia, what did he say?’

  The girl got on her knees and put her ear near Angus’s mouth. ‘He says the store is burned.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Oh no, not that.’ Shock was wide on her face.

  Angus mumbled some more.

  ‘What’s he saying now?’ Myra screeched. Blood started to drip from her forehead again. ‘It can’t have burned down.’

  ‘It’s all right, it’s insured.’

  Myra’s face purpled. ‘It’s not insured,’ she exploded. ‘I spent that money getting rid of Robert’s floozies,’ she seethed.

  Marcia only looked frightened. She bent to Angus when beckoned. He muttered, ‘My chest.’

  The girl peeled open his jacket. Gasping at the blood-soaked waistcoat, she snatched her hand away. Then gingerly she unbuttoned the waistcoat.

  ‘There’s something sticking into his chest,’ she said, horrified.

  ‘What?’ Myra demanded, squinting.

  Marcia stared at it. ‘It’s stuck right in.’ She got up, backing away from Angus, then stared at her mother. ‘Ma, what do we do?’

  ‘Run, find help for Angus. Run, go now.’ Marcia bolted and Myra cried after her, ‘But I fear he might die before help comes.’ Then she eased down to kneel beside him. ‘You have your Adeline’s hatpin,’ she breathed close to his ear. ‘Now, where did you find that?’

  Angus could hear her strangely singsong voice clearly, even though she seemed to be fading before his eyes. Her hand was on his chest and he could feel a pressure, and deeper pain. ‘Adeline,’ he thought he said, his voice a murmur, an echo in his ears.

  ‘She’s dead, Angus,’ Myra whispered. ‘And you must have found her hatpin under my bed. That won’t do. And somehow it’s been knocked between your ribs. I bet it’s nicked your heart just a wee bit. That won’t do, either. Need to fix that.’

  Myra’s hand was over the handle of the hatpin. But she didn’t pull it, she pushed. Angus stared up at her, tried to take hold of it. Too slippery. His fingers too fumbling. Sharp pain. Agony.

  Adeline’s hatpin … my heart.

  Forty-three

  Sam had ignored Angus Boyd, sped down onto the landing, thudded over the gangway and leapt onto the boat. He must have taken the steps up the ladder two and three at a time, for in hardly a breath he burst into the wheelhouse. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he cried, eyes wide, hands thrust in the air.

  ‘Oh, very funny, Sam Taylor.’ Maggie turned and propped the rifle against the wall. Her whole body was shaking, and her ears rang in protest of the gunshots. She put a hand on the wall to steady herself.

  Joe crowded in behind him, pushing into the small space. Then Dane shouldered his way over. ‘You all right, Maggie?’

  She nodded, glanced at all three men to show how brave she was, how calm, collected and—

  ‘You don’t look all right.’

  ‘It’s not often I threaten someone with a gun.’ She looked at Sam but couldn’t read his face. She looked away. Hot. Shaky. For goodness sake, Mairead.

  Dane gripped her shoulder. ‘He’s gone, limping off in a big hurry as if you had shot him. What did he want?’

  Her mouth had dried. ‘He said he had something to talk about, some photographs someone had of me attacking his brother.’

  Sam tensed. ‘I’ll go after him.’

  ‘Not you,’ Dane ordered. ‘Joe and I will go find him and we’ll have a quiet talk. But not you.’ He glanced at Maggie. ‘Wait for us. Don’t leave the
boat.’ He said to Sam, ‘On deck, now.’

  Maggie felt her legs wobble and she groped for the bench seat on the side wall. She sat a moment, then slumped, and let the fright and the confusion engulf her. Her mind went blank. She closed her eyes. All I want is Sam.

  On the deck, Sam insisted, ‘I’ll go. So far his bloody brother has got away with attacking her, and now there’s talk of blackmail. I want those photographs myself.’

  Dane shook his head. ‘If I go see what this fella wanted and why, he’ll still be alive afterwards. Then I’ll find the photographer. You’re to stay on the boat, security for my cousin. We’ll be back as soon as possible, then we need to be gone.’ Dane stared hard at Sam, then lowered his tone. ‘I trust you to do the right thing.’ He turned to Joe. ‘Let’s go.’

  Sam watched them head off. What the hell was the right thing where Maggie O’Rourke was concerned? He stared up at the wheelhouse. She was there, dammit, and he was on the boat, alone with her.

  He should’ve insisted on going after Angus Boyd. Even if the man beat his brains out, it would be easier than resisting Maggie O’Rourke. He had to resist. He cast about for something useful to do instead of standing around like a lump of lard. Have a wash, maybe. He looked across at Pie. He hadn’t spooked with all the shenanigans. And he’d left another pile of horseshit. A wash could wait. He’d grab the shovel and do away with it, and keep the dog from leaping into …

  Where the hell was the damn dog?

  Maggie made her way slowly down the iron steps, unsure her feet could be trusted. She crept onto the deck and looked across the river. The town was on the other side of the boat, so she was glad she couldn’t see anything of what might have been going on. She just wanted to get to her cabin and throw caution to the wind. Stupid. Dangerous, but he was what she needed. Sam. No, no. Be sensible.

  That might have been a possibility except at that moment Sam tried to step around her on his way to the forward deck.