The Ink Stain

by Tom Keneally

  ‘If I can help, of course –’

  ‘Thank you, and I accept your kind invitation to the site of the duel between Hallward and Duchamp.’

  Donnelly frowned. ‘I made no such invitation, and I don’t understand what the point would be.’

  ‘Nor do I, yet. But the administration fears whatever Hallward was working on when he died, and the line between Hallward and Duchamp runs right through Mobbs. A duel between two of them, caused by a third, well, it merits looking into. Even if looking into it brings me no closer to the truth, it might yield something almost as valuable.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Leverage, Mr Donnelly. My ability to continue with this investigation rests with Duchamp. If this duel runs deeper than two men shooting into the air so that they could tell themselves honour had been satisfied, I may yet be able to convince him it is not yet time for me to sail up the river.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘You are under no obligation to go, of course,’ Monsarrat said to Mrs Mulrooney, back in the boarding house parlour. He was standing in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece, fiddling with his cravat. It had come askew at the Sheer Hulk, as though breathing the air of the place resulted in instant dishevelment. ‘If you’re tired.’

  ‘The elderly get tired of an evening, Mr Monsarrat. You’re not suggesting that I am among their number, I hope.’

  ‘I would not dare. Especially not since you have the fan. What is it – wood? Ivory?’

  ‘Which is harder?’ asked Mrs Mulrooney. ‘If it is not the kind I have, I’ll be sure to get it. Now, you won’t stop me from coming tonight. We need to speak to that Bancroft fellow.’

  ‘And try not to scare him in the process,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I’d rather he not know that I’m aware of the ownership of that house. As it is, making another appearance at the music society after being warned off by both Duchamp and Bancroft – it’s a declaration of sorts. What I don’t know is whether it will serve to flush out information or send people to ground. We have to try, though.’

  ‘It’s just that we are attempting a fair bit of flushing, at the moment,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Between Bancroft and Henrietta, not to mention our friend Vindex.’

  ‘Yes. Not only is Miss Duchamp somehow connected to Mobbs, but whoever hit Hallward in the forehead from such a distance would need to be a good shot, and according to Reverend Alcott she is. Along with the colonel and any number of other men, of course.’

  ‘Did Alcott talk about Mobbs’s shooting prowess?’

  ‘Hopeless, apparently.’

  ‘And his own?’

  ‘Hm. No, actually.’

  ‘It’s interesting that he chose not to, given he seems to believe Hallward was intent on bringing down the government. And that he bore a personal grudge against the man.’

  ‘The problem is,’ said Monsarrat, patting his cravat, ‘we have too many possibilities, and the weather vane seems to be pointing to them each in turn.’

  ‘Yes, everything is wrinkly,’ said Hannah. ‘It could just be minding its own wrinkly business, or it could all be connected somehow – the house, the grudges, the guns.’

  Monsarrat had been worrying away at his own wrinkle: the German expression James Collins had used, the one that Miss Albrecht often said. There was a faint tinge of familiarity to the phrase.

  ‘Well, hopefully we’ll get some answers tonight. At the very least, I want to know how somebody who has the rank of colonel managed to miss twice at ten paces.’

  On the stage was a woman in her thirties, her hair decorated with long scarlet feathers held in place by glittering clips, her over-rouged cheeks quivering as her voice tried and failed to take flight, to do what the aria she was singing demanded.

  Mrs Mulrooney leaned towards Monsarrat. ‘The sacrifices I make for you,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you’re a very good auntie.’ He smiled, flinching at the thought that the fan might materialise.

  Before it could, the woman finished her song to a smattering of polite applause. It was the most courtesy anyone in the hall had shown her all evening; a number of unabashed conversations had been taking place, and very few eyes had been on the singer.

  These included Bancroft’s – he had been surreptitiously glancing at Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney all evening. And after Bancroft shook a few hands, clapped a few gentlemen on the back and bowed to a few ladies, he made his way towards the newcomers. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Not busy enough?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Monsarrat. ‘We were hoping to hear Miss Albrecht.’

  ‘Who was far better than that little dumpling tonight,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.

  Bancroft pursed his lips and glared at her. ‘She happens to be my niece.’

  ‘You should talk to her parents, then,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘See if they can guide her towards a more suitable occupation.’

  Monsarrat shot Mrs Mulrooney a warning look. She frowned at him but went silent, at least for now.

  ‘Forgive my aunt,’ he said to Bancroft. ‘Charming as your niece is, we are also here to see you.’

  ‘I’ve already made it clear that I wish to limit our association,’ said Bancroft.

  ‘Your wishes will be respected, naturally,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I do, however, have a question that you are in a unique position to answer. You were a military man at one point – I can tell from your bearing.’

  ‘Mr Monsarrat, I doubt you know the first thing about me, or anyone like me. Men of honour who came by their fortunes honestly.’

  Monsarrat inhaled, clenched his fists.

  ‘Mr Monsarrat has no fortune, but I assure you he is acquainted with honest work,’ Mrs Mulrooney said quickly. ‘No, marksmanship is an interest of ours. In fact, am I right in thinking that Duchamp is a fine shot? What about you? Were you the best marksman in your regiment?’

  Bancroft glared at her. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Do you have something you wish disposed of?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘When I have something I wish disposed of, I do the disposing myself.’

  She smiled sweetly at Bancroft, and Monsarrat resolved to talk to her later, no matter how many thrashings with the fan he earned himself. She was, he thought, perhaps feeling emboldened by her newfound wealth and its outward manifestations. She was becoming somewhat reckless. A little bit, he had to admit, like him.

  ‘So why is that any business of yours? Unless you want me to bag you a magpie for your supper.’

  ‘Do you know, I don’t think it’s important enough to take up any more of your time,’ said Monsarrat. ‘You’re a pastoralist, I understand. I’m sure you have a long way to travel tonight. Unless you have a place to stay in Sydney?’

  ‘Which would be none of your concern either.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for obliging us.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t oblige you any further. If either of you ever comes here again, I shall ask you to leave in the most public and embarrassing fashion possible. The request to leave – that I would have done anyway. But the embarrassment – that, dear lady,’ he bowed stiffly to Mrs Mulrooney, ‘is for my niece.’

  ‘I know it’s tempting to bait a man like Bancroft, but you must try to fight the urge,’ Monsarrat said to her as they walked back to the boarding house.

  ‘Haven’t I been controlling myself for twenty years? I now have enough money to buy my father’s farm fifty times over – more money than I really understood existed before. Does that not buy me the right to a few honest statements?’

  ‘In this investigation, I very much fear it doesn’t.’

  ‘Then whether I am a servant or a wealthy dowager, I am equally voiceless.’

  An infuriating woman, sometimes, Monsarrat thought. But deserving of a voice, more than most.

  ‘I know you find it frustrating. I assure you it’s not forever.’

  ‘Nothing is, Mr Monsarrat. And I confess to finding everything frustrating at the moment.’<
br />
  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘No word, then, from Parramatta?’

  ‘Young Henson has written. He tells me that Helen is taking good care of the cottage. He says she knows how important it is to send word if any letter arrives.’

  ‘But none has.’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Mulrooney stopped suddenly and took a deep, juddering breath, gazing up at the moon. ‘Is Padraig looking up somewhere too, Mr Monsarrat, like his old mother? Or will he never look up again? And if he has died, will I ever know where he lies?’

  Monsarrat felt suddenly unmoored. His friend’s fierce practicality and genial irascibility had always seemed to him as immutable as the moon she was gazing at.

  ‘I am sure your son’s yet above the ground,’ he said. ‘When this is over, I promise you I will bend all of my efforts to finding your Padraig.’

  She smiled quickly at him. ‘You’re kind, Mr Monsarrat – don’t look surprised,’ she said as he raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re still an eejit of a man half the time, but you’re a long way from the worst of them. You’ll want to be putting some effort into looking for your Grace, too.’

  Monsarrat’s step faltered. ‘I will. I know Ralph Eveleigh, though. He’s sympathetic, certainly, but he believes I was put on this earth to clean the more inconvenient messes, not to look for a convict. For him to help me – and for him to retain his position – I must solve this case and write it up in my finest copperplate hand.’

  Chapter 16

  Monsarrat’s companion was not providing him with any distraction from the constant jolting. This road between Sydney and the marsh where the duel had taken place was one of the worst he had encountered in a colony of ruts and muddy holes, grabbing the coach wheels and pointing them in a direction the coachman had not intended.

  He had dragged Donnelly from his breakfast. Now Monsarrat wished he had thought to bring some bread, perhaps cheese. As it was, Donnelly mostly showed Monsarrat the back of his head as he pointedly looked at the passing scenery.

  ‘Care for a stroll?’ Monsarrat asked when the coach pulled over to spell the horses.

  ‘I’d care for a little food. As I’ve been denied it, you can stroll on your own.’

  A quick stab of resentment. A pulse from the shadow. For a moment, Monsarrat felt some sympathy with those who resented the Donnellys of the colony, born of convicts but removed from the more visceral aspects of their parents’ past lives. Monsarrat would bet the elder Donnellys would have been delighted if their biggest problem was an early start to the day and a lack of immediate breakfast.

  ‘Not his usual sparkling self today, I notice,’ said the coachman as Monsarrat unfolded himself from the coach.

  ‘No. You know him?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ The coachman strapped a feedbag to the bridle of the dark brown horse that had been pulling them along. ‘Suits him to have a conveyance handy. He pays well, and I wait at the fringes of his protests so he can duck off quickly if things get out of hand.’

  ‘Risky work, Mr …’

  ‘McCarthy.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Yes, it is. Profitable, though. And I happen to believe in what he’s doing. We’re treated as serfs while the land beneath our feet is carved up and doled out like slices of cake.’

  ‘And if you were to be arrested?’

  ‘Sally’s a fast one,’ said McCarthy, patting the horse’s flank. ‘She’s not much for conversation, though, and neither is our friend at the moment. If you care to sit up front with me, you’ll get some fresh air and a bit of talk, and the trip will pass quicker for both of us.’

  By the time they arrived, Monsarrat was intimately acquainted with Sally’s pedigree and with the goings-on of those rich enough to rent McCarthy’s coach. Monsarrat was clearly not among their number, but the man insisted on providing his address anyway, just in case.

  The scrub here stopped a long way from the water’s edge, and the soil was dense, wet. Monsarrat had to work his fingers back and forth to scoop up a clod.

  ‘Don’t get it close to your waistcoat,’ said Donnelly, whose temper had been improved by a nap on the second leg of the journey. ‘It stains, that stuff. I’ve never been a man of fashion, but a rusty streak of dirt across one’s clothes is below even my standards.’

  Monsarrat squeezed the small sod, and water dribbled down his hand. ‘I imagine you had greater concerns the last time you were here.’

  ‘Yes. Specifically, trying to discourage Henry from participating. Colonel Duchamp has a reputation as a decent marksman.’

  ‘And yet he missed.’

  ‘Oddly, yes. Twice. I’ve no doubt he wanted to kill Henry. That much was apparent from the look on his face, as well as the boasting he’d been doing about being rid of his problems. He may have been worried about civil unrest, of course. The public were already upset about those two soldiers the governor had mistreated, especially the one who died in those chains. The colonel’s dispatch of a man some saw as a hero would not have made things any better. I would have had no problems at all drawing people out in their thousands to protest such an outrage, and Duchamp knew it. He may have feared it would even turn into a riot.’

  ‘So the colonel was – where?’

  Donnelly paced towards a tree that faced west, towards the interior where Grace O’Leary laboured on an unknown property.

  ‘And presumably Hallward was directly facing him?’ said Monsarrat, going to stand a few yards away from Donnelly, looking towards the sea. ‘Round about here?’ He put a hand to his eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun across the water.

  Donnelly nodded.

  ‘And this was early in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. We had set out in the dark. But I can see your concern, Mr Monsarrat – the sun was in Henry’s face.’

  ‘How did you allow yourself to be given such a disadvantageous position?’

  ‘Duchamp insisted on a coin toss. He won, so he chose the positions.’

  ‘Not very sporting.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think he knew whether Henry intended to shoot to kill. And Henry – good man, as I told you – couldn’t resist a jab now and then. Even if Duchamp did not want him dead at the beginning of the process, I’d wager he did afterwards.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Duchamp had wanted the duel in order to keep his honour intact. Henry was hell-bent on making sure it was in tatters.’

  ‘I gave the command to fire,’ said Donnelly. They were sitting, now, on twin rocks which had partially sunk into the soft mud, looking at some magpies wheeling against the morning sky. ‘Duchamp, God rot him, is quick. As soon as the word was out of my mouth he whipped around, had his pistol aimed at Henry’s chest before Henry had even raised his own weapon.’

  ‘So why didn’t Hallward die there and then?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Well, he certainly didn’t seem to be doing anything to prevent Duchamp from killing him. He turned to me and said, “Did you say fire?” Then he aimed his pistol straight up. Hit a tree branch, scared some cockatoos. They made a devil of a racket, and one of them decided to leave a calling card on Duchamp’s shoulder as it flew over.’

  ‘He would not have liked that,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘No, indeed.’ Donnelly shook his head and chuckled. ‘Especially not when Henry told him that even the cockatoos had educated opinions. Then he said no one need worry because he had been given a clean bill of spiritual health that morning, since he always told the truth. It seemed to make Duchamp even angrier. He said he wasn’t surprised to hear Henry joke about the state of his soul, that everything was a joke to him and the colony could crumble as long as there was enough printer’s ink for Henry to make snide comments.

  ‘And did he?’ asked Monsarrat. ‘Hallward? See everything as a joke?’

  ‘Oh, no, Far from it. He believed Duchamp would not stop until he had a servile press. He said as much, there and then. So Duchamp aimed his pistol again. Stared at Henry so hard I thought Henry might die from the hatred in the man’s eye
s before the ball had a chance to reach him.’

  ‘But he didn’t. Either from the look, or the ball,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘No. Henry Hallward may well be the only man in the colony to have had his life saved by a lizard.’

  ‘I’m sorry, a lizard?’

  ‘The kind with those long, whippy tails, crests on their heads and stripes on their backs. See them sometimes by the harbour, pretending to be statues. Water dragons, I think they’re called. They behave very familiarly, even with gentlemen, and this one – three feet or so, no word of a lie – scurried out of the bush and ran over Duchamp’s feet. It startled him – he looked away for a moment as he fired, and the ball went wide. Wound up in the mud.’ He nodded towards a rust-stained patch some distance away.

  Monsarrat stood, paced towards it. ‘That must be thirty yards,’ he said. ‘Quite a distance for a duelling pistol.’

  ‘Not these ones,’ said Donnelly. ‘These ones were rifled.’

  ‘Truly? I thought all duelling pistols had smooth bores.’

  ‘Rifling’s common on the continent, but considered unsporting here and in England. Increases accuracy, you see. Not to mention range. Duchamp was very fond of them. He smiled when Bancroft opened the box they were in, picked one up and stroked it. Said it felt like an extension of his arm. That it set him apart. Honour demanded that he had to offer Henry its twin, of course. And when Henry picked it up, Duchamp told him that one way or another, he was holding his own doom in his hands.’

  ‘So, Duchamp had the deadliest duelling pistols he could find,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Yes. And he barely took his eyes off Henry as he reloaded. I whispered to Henry, then. Said I’d never seen someone look so murderous. That perhaps a strategic retreat might be in order.’