by Tom Keneally
On this east side of the town – always the favoured side – the elegant buildings were crowded together as though to protect one another from being touched by squalor. They gave way very quickly to dirt streets – neatened by gangs of chained convicts for the benefit of those in the coaches – which sent dust flying into throats and eyes. For the most part, the road gang convicts kept their gaze down. Most overseers were not known for their leniency, and those convicts who had the audacity to soil a fine carriage by putting their eyes on it could expect violent discouragement. In one gang the coach passed, though, a man stared directly at Henrietta and Hannah. He had the reddened eyes of a lime burner, condemned to lose his skin slowly to the caustic substances that were released when he burned oyster shells to extract lime for mortar. His eyes, under their abraded lids, followed the coach. When it was roughly level with him, he spat into the dirt.
Soon the streets were clear of people and lined by ghost gums, interspersed with the occasional shack, until the road widened, the trees fell away, and Hannah found herself looking at a broad, flat expanse of green. The coachman pulled close to a wooden fence, freshly painted and well made but still insubstantial enough to fall to a stampeding horse, should one have had enough of racing. To one side, a roof shaded several rows of seats; many were taken, but some in the middle towards the front remained empty.
As Henrietta led Hannah to the seats, she clamped her hand onto Hannah’s elbow, guiding her from one group to the next, introducing her briefly and then falling into conversations about people Hannah didn’t know, or prattling about the difficulty in finding a good maid or a decent bolt of silk. Hannah tried to pay attention – people revealed much about themselves when discussing trivialities. But this chitchat, punctuated by laughs that sounded like frenzied horses, was almost enough to rob her of consciousness.
It was just as well that she was not attending to the conversation. Had she been, she might have missed a familiar voice struggling to be heard above the chatter of the crowd. ‘Pies! Pies and philosophy – my friends, you will not get a more intoxicating combination. No, not even at a tavern! You will leave here with your stomach full and your education augmented.’
Hannah put a hand on Henrietta’s arm, whispering that she would like to go for a stroll. Henrietta nodded distractedly and went back to her conversation about the impossibility of getting roses to grow in such deficient air.
The pie seller was already mobbed. The scent of his wares snaked towards her over the heads of the crowd, and she berated herself for not bringing money now that she had some to bring; she must, she thought, make herself a little purse, perhaps sew it into a pocket of her skirts. But the pies, wonderful as they were, were not what drew her towards the overturned crate and the wiry man who stood on it, shifting from foot to foot as he handed out pies and accepted payment, unable to be still for more than a moment.
Stephen Lethbridge: a man of education and discretion, who also possessed quite an extraordinary facility with pastry. A man who was never happier than when he was trotting with his little hotbox from Sydney to Parramatta and then up into the mountains, unwilling to deprive anyone in the colony of his pies – assuming they could pay, of course.
Mr Monsarrat would not have solved the murder of the Parramatta Female Factory superintendent last year without Lethbridge’s help, which had also ensured that Monsarrat was close enough to save Hannah from a fire lit by the murderer. Hannah doubted, though, that Lethbridge would recognise her now. She had seen him sell dozens of pies in Parramatta, and he visited Sydney regularly, probably encountering hundreds of people in the course of each week.
Hannah stood towards the back of the throng, moving forward as it thinned when the pies ran out and all Lethbridge had to offer were his thoughts on some old Roman named Marcus Aurelius. When his eyes swept the dwindling crowd, he saw her, smiled, clapped his hands, jumped down from the box and ran towards her, scattering his few remaining customers. ‘Mrs Mulrooney, what a wonderful surprise! I had heard you were in Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘I was. We were back in Parramatta for all of a few nights before they bundled us away down the river. Thankfully we weren’t forced to run here – you are the only person I know who could achieve that. I’m sorry, by the way, for I seem to have lost you your audience.’
‘Faithless rogues, the lot of them. Those who stayed were not really listening to my fine words, just in a state of suspension until the race starts. I must say, though …’ He took the hotbox from around his neck, placed it reverentially on the crate, turned and held her hands. ‘Well! One hears rumours, including that a certain lady has come into a bit of money. I know of no one more deserving. And I can see, now, that it is true.’ He rubbed the fabric of her sleeve between his fingers. ‘A very fine cloth, that is. Understated quality. Much like you and me.’
Hannah gave him her first genuine smile of the day.
‘And where is your Mr Monsarrat? Not a racing man?’
‘Perhaps he would be, had he the leisure,’ Hannah said. ‘His time is being taken up with the murder of the Sydney Chronicle editor.’
‘Ah, yes. A great admirer of my pies was Henry Hallward, God rest him. Don’t look so surprised – you’d be amazed who I meet through the exchange of pastry for money. I didn’t mind the Chronicle – at least it attempted independent thought. The Flyer, on the other hand, might as well be owned by the governor himself. Only fit to line my hotbox.’
‘I shall make sure I send Mr Monsarrat your regards,’ said Hannah. ‘Are you in Sydney long?’
‘I start walking back to Parramatta tomorrow. Those lads working on the new church get restless if I’m not there. The guards asked me not to stay away too long – apparently the pies are better at enforcing order than the soldiers. But, as always, if I can be of any assistance …’
Hannah realised that the noise of the crowd was dying down. She looked towards the track and saw the horses beginning to line up in the gates. From the stand, Henrietta was scanning the crowd, a look of irritation on her face.
‘It was wonderful to see you, Mr Lethbridge,’ Hannah said. ‘However, I must be getting back to my companion.’
Lethbridge smiled and gave her a low bow.
She had only walked a few paces back towards the stands, when she realised she needed something after all. She turned and called, ‘Mr Lethbridge!’
As he slung his hotbox back around his neck, he was constrained from bowing but gave her an encouraging smile.
‘You meet almost everyone between here and the mountains, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Sometimes a bit beyond the mountains as well.’
‘Mr Monsarrat and I have been a little hampered, you see. Hallward’s gaoler – one of only two people who saw the murder – has gone to visit his sister somewhere to the west, in the mountains, so he is out of our reach, together with the story Hallward was very possibly working on. Nothing of it was found, but enough people have mentioned it to give me faith that it may have accompanied this man to the hills.’
‘What’s the fellow’s name?’
‘Frank … somebody.’
Lethbridge smiled again, slapping the side of his hotbox. ‘Frank Gleeson, I’d wager! Good fellow. I go by the gaol sometimes, you see. He likes me to save him one or two. And you, my dear, have saved me a trip – I didn’t know he was out of town.’
‘The timing is a little odd, though,’ said Hannah. ‘He is a crucial witness, but no one seems to be able to tell us exactly where he is or when he will be back, and I’ve no idea what his sister’s name is – if she exists. Would you mind keeping an eye out, and let us know if you hear anything?’
‘It would be my honour. I shall be back in Sydney next Thursday – the Botanic Gardens is a fertile hunting ground for customers. Perhaps you might consider a stroll there?’
Hannah returned his smile. ‘I would indeed! Oh, and if I may impose on you one more time?’
‘Hardly an imposition from one such as you.�
�
‘My son is droving out west, but he’s not answering my letters. Padraig Mulrooney, a young man with red-gold hair. If you were to hear anything –’
‘Of course. It is not a name I’ve heard before, but that means nothing. You know what the life of the drover is like, Mrs Mulrooney – they’re always moved around, often spending a month or two without seeing a mail cart. I am certain that nothing has befallen your son, but I shall trot back down the mountain with all due speed should any news arise.’
Hannah took his hand in hers and squeezed it with thanks.
As she walked back to Henrietta, she caught sight of a battered leather satchel. Its owner was trying to interest racegoers in his pamphlets. Many waved them away, but a few people took one, read it where they stood and frowned.
Hannah approached the man. ‘Are these your words?’ she asked.
He stared at Hannah. ‘You were at the gardens the other day.’
‘I was, and I took your pamphlet home and read it with interest.’
‘I wouldn’t say that too loudly, here,’ he said. ‘And it’s not my writing. Me and a few others are paid to hand them out – paid well, given the risk.’
‘Paid by whom?’
‘We’re paid a bit extra not to name a name when someone asks. Come to that, who’s asking?’ He began to look around him, perhaps fearful that someone with reason to be aggrieved would notice.
‘I would like to meet your employer,’ Hannah told him, then turned and walked as quickly as she could towards Henrietta in the stands.
The young woman gave her a look of consternation. ‘Mrs Mulrooney! You must not wander off like that, a woman as – well, as venerable as yourself. Anything could have befallen you!’
‘I am sorry to have concerned you, but I assure you I was perfectly safe. I’m simply enjoying that atmosphere you mentioned.’
‘Still, you must promise to stay close to me. You are under my protection, after all.’
‘Miss Duchamp, what could I possibly need protection from?’
Henrietta opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she caught sight of something over Hannah’s shoulder. The young woman frowned, then turned back to the track and began an animated conversation with the woman on her other side.
Hannah slowly turned to see what Henrietta had been looking at.
Gerald Mobbs was talking to a man who held a brown leather bag, in far better condition than the pamphleteer’s satchel. Hannah noticed that several other men with similar bags were dotted around the course. What were they up to? Mobbs’s precise moustache was the only composed part of his face; the discussion was becoming more heated by the minute, and indecipherable snippets made their way towards Hannah on the breeze. Finally, from his brown bag the man took out a piece of paper and handed it to Mobbs, who stalked off so quickly he seemed to be deliberately avoiding the man. When Mobbs passed a man who was reading a pamphlet, he snatched it, threw it to the earth and ground it under his heel.
‘There seems to be a great deal of interest in the writings of this Vindex person,’ Hannah said to Henrietta.
The young woman’s brow clenched with irritation. ‘Interest? Outrage, more likely. Some little upstart is trying to cause trouble. These scraps of paper are of no consequence. You should ignore them. The men who hand them out are harassing people, you know. I imagine my brother will seek to have them banned.’
‘I see. Will he also ban the men I see here with those brown leather bags? What are they doing?’
‘Bookmakers, my dear. Nothing to concern yourself with.’
Hannah frowned, confused. ‘But why are they making books at the racecourse?’
‘You are priceless,’ said Henrietta with a giggle. ‘They are taking bets on which horse will win. Something you will find out very soon, if you attend – look, it’s about to start.’
A man standing at the side of the track blew into a slightly battered horn. The horses sprang forward, thundering around the track so quickly that Hannah felt a rush of air across her face. It was over in a matter of minutes, one fine black horse crossing the finish line well ahead of the others, its rider standing up in the stirrups and raising his hand in the air.
‘I can see the appeal, certainly,’ said Hannah. ‘Rather exciting.’
‘Especially for those who bet on that horse,’ said Henrietta, nodding towards two men who were clapping each other on the back and waving paper tickets.
Hannah turned to look for Mobbs’s bookmaker; he was now as swamped as Lethbridge had been, but by gamblers surging forward to claim their winnings. Mobbs wasn’t among them. She caught sight of him heading towards her and Henrietta. The young woman was looking at him as he drew closer, and Hannah fancied she perceived a delicate shake of Henrietta’s head – a movement that may have been a warning.
Mobbs paused. He threw his ticket into the dirt.
‘Mr Mobbs seems a little upset,’ said Hannah.
‘Yes, well, one is going to see that at a racecourse.’ Henrietta stood, and without asking Hannah to follow – no doubt assuming she would – began to make her way back to the coach.
Hannah scurried to catch up with Henrietta. When Hannah came alongside her, she said, ‘Still, one feels sorry for those who lost their money.’
‘For someone to win, someone else must lose.’ Henrietta’s voice was suddenly lower than her usual girlish trill. ‘It’s why I stay away from betting, although I know a few ladies who do it in a small way. The excitement of a win makes one silly, while the disappointment of a loss colours the rest of one’s day. Best just to enjoy the spectacle.’
This was true, thought Hannah, who enjoyed the spectacle of Henrietta’s sly intelligence emerging. The woman was clearly more perceptive than she wanted people to think. Perhaps she did not wish to intimidate potential suitors. And perhaps she had discovered, as Hannah had, that there were significant advantages to being underestimated.
Chapter 8
‘I would like to think your presence here would mean I have less work, Mr Monsarrat, not more.’ Edward Duchamp did not bother to look up from the papers on his desk. ‘You are not here simply to attend garden parties.’ He did look up then, staring at Monsarrat over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Or recitals, for that matter.’
‘With respect, sir, I rather think that what I do with my time in the evenings is my own concern,’ Monsarrat risked saying in as calm a voice as he could manage.
‘Not when it involves Carolina Albrecht. Whatever the nature of her friendship with Hallward – and I have my own thoughts on that score, let me assure you – she is a woman of questionable morals and even more questionable honesty. Who knows what she is capable of. You should have a care about the company you keep. You are, after all, representing the Crown.’
The same Crown, thought Monsarrat, which decided I was no longer fit to be a subject. Which felt it necessary to prevent me from ever returning to England.
‘I do assure you, Colonel, that my integrity has not been affected by my listening to a piano concerto.’ His reckless shadow twisted and stretched. ‘And a very well-played one, at that.’
Duchamp was silent, assessing him. ‘Yes, well, the very fact that we are discussing this, rather than the business at hand, is concerning.’
‘And it’s that business I’ve come on. I had no intention of providing you with a review of Miss Albrecht’s performance. You must know, sir, that unless I am allowed to visit the site of the murder, there are limits to what I can accomplish.’
‘I don’t see why. Everything is being cleaned up and the protests are ongoing. You’ve spoken to the warden, and I sent you over to see Mobbs. I might arrange a conversation with Archdeacon Harvey as well – he might have some illuminating things to say: a complaint by him led to one of Mr Hallward’s stretches in prison.’
‘Nevertheless, I must insist on a visit to the prison yard. Protest or not.’
Duchamp leaned back in his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘Now th
at I think of it, perhaps a visit might be beneficial. I should at least appear at the protests. Let these people know the Crown is watching. Symbols are important, you know. No harm in showing them the personification of our efforts to catch their hero’s killer.’
Monsarrat had never been in this gaol. In a colony where educated men were scarce, as a convict Monsarrat had immediately been placed in the Colonial Secretary’s Office, where his daily duty was to inscribe tickets of leave, conferring freedom on others while remaining a slave himself.
Today, the gaol’s gate was concealed behind a mass of bodies, mostly men, with a few dourly dressed women sprinkled between, waving placards and whooping in response to a speech being made by a slight man who stood on a stool. He wore the rough, sturdy brown suit a farmer might choose when visiting town, although this man had added an incongruous scarlet cravat. His dark hair probably sat in a luxuriant wave when brushed, but it was mounting a protest of its own, sticking out at odd angles above a face smattered with freckles. He made no attempt to restrain it, as his hands were too busy gesticulating. He and his audience had not yet noticed Monsarrat and Duchamp watching from their coach.
‘Some of you have tickets of leave in your pockets,’ the man was saying. His accent had a tinge of Irish to it but oddly elongated vowels, a manner of speaking Monsarrat had first heard only recently. ‘Some of you arrived here willingly, removing yourselves from all that was familiar to contribute to the building of a robust, prosperous colony. And what have you found? An administration committed to shepherding this place towards a truly civil society? A governor committed to upholding the rights of the King’s subjects, citizens of this extended version of Britain?’ The man paused for the jeers and howls he must surely have known were coming. ‘No, you have found a man who believes that you are his subjects, not the King’s. He believes that New South Wales is his own feudal land, and treats Government House as though it is his ancestral seat. And we know, do we not, the best way to deal with such a man?’
