by Tom Keneally
‘I do apologise – you’re absolutely right.’
‘And we’re to go to the Chronicle now, are we?’ she said, her arms crossed.
‘Well, yes, do you disagree? We can always –’
‘Of course I agree, eejit of a man. We must get those letters, and Cullen’s probably out of his mind with worry by now. And after that, Mr Monsarrat, we will be getting that boy, and they will find out what former convicts are really capable of.’
The little coin purse Hannah carried was getting light. It was made lighter still when a few more shillings were passed over to McCarthy.
‘What did herself say to you?’ Hannah asked McCarthy as they pulled up outside the peeling door of the Chronicle.
‘Asked me what I was doing there,’ said the coachman. ‘Told her I was waiting to collect somebody. She asked who, I told her it was none of her business.’
‘Very good of you,’ said Monsarrat. He clapped McCarthy on the shoulder. ‘I do appreciate it.’
McCarthy flicked the reins, began to move off. ‘Behave yourselves now,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll fish you out of trouble if I have to, but I’m far too lazy to enjoy it.’
Monsarrat rapped quietly on the door of the Chronicle offices. After a few moments, he and Hannah looked at each other, and she gestured towards a larger arched gate. Perhaps, she thought, they could find something thin, like a piece of bark, and use it to lift the latch.
But then the door slowly opened.
‘Have you found him?’ asked Cullen, peering around to see if Peter was waiting behind them.
‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘We don’t have him, not yet,’ she added hastily, when a smile began to form on Cullen’s face. ‘We will, but we need your help.’
He nodded, gesturing them inside. ‘I haven’t seen my cottage in days. I’ve been sleeping here since Peter disappeared. In case he comes back. I didn’t want him to be locked out – it’s the only home he has.’
‘And he will have again, if that is what he wants,’ said Hannah. ‘First though, I want to tell you a story. If we are correct, it is a story you already know.’
‘It wasn’t looters, of course,’ said Cullen when Hannah had finished talking. He had settled her behind Hallward’s desk, and she did feel it suited her. ‘I can’t prove it – I wasn’t here – but not enough was taken. They could have melted down the type blocks, for instance, but they just smashed the frames. And Mr Hallward’s purse was still in his desk, even though the drawers were pulled out. If he’d been keeping the letters anywhere in the building, they would have found them.’
‘But Gleeson said you had them,’ Hannah said.
‘Mr Hallward may well have told him that, for the purposes of secrecy. He wasn’t above a little misinformation when it suited him.’
‘But they must exist,’ Hannah said. ‘Hallward surely would have kept them somewhere safe.’
Cullen frowned. He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil stub, then scribbled something and handed it to Hannah. It was an address. One to the east of the harbour.
‘There is only one place I can think of,’ Cullen said. ‘But I can’t go myself. It is not appropriate to call on a lady so late at night – unless you’re another lady.’
The cottage was small, but where many front yards were scrub or bare earth, this one had a path bordered in carefully placed flowerbeds. Some sprouted roses of the kind that were hard to coax along in this salt-soaked air.
Monsarrat had insisted on coming with Hannah in the coach, staying hidden as she went in but ready to help if help was needed. They both knew that Carolina would never answer her door to a man.
A dim light shone from between the not-quite-closed curtains. Hannah knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
Carolina opened the door. She was wrapped in a brocade robe, a late-night scowl on her face.
‘Miss Albrecht, I apologise for calling on you so late. May I come in? It is a matter of some urgency.’
‘Your urgency may not be mine. Have you come to remind me what a disgrace I am?’
‘I have come to beg for your help.’
‘You should beg elsewhere.’
‘I gave you an opportunity once before to help a boy. What I am about to ask might help him too – but it might also help you. Help all of us. Help everyone understand why Henry Hallward was killed, and to appreciate the consequences of leaving that crime unpunished.’
In the backyard of the Chronicle’s offices, Cullen opened the door to the shed where Peter had been sleeping, then picked up a stick that was lying nearby. He looked at Hannah. ‘Which board did Miss Albrecht say?’ he asked.
‘Third from the right.’
‘And what will we find?’ asked Monsarrat.
‘Letters,’ said Hannah. ‘That’s all I know. It’s all she knows, so she says. Hallward told her where they are, told her the administration would be concerned to know he had them, but didn’t say what was in them.’
Cullen levered up a floorboard. He extracted a packet wrapped in oilcloth and handed it to Hannah. ‘Are you sure you want these? Perhaps they draw trouble to them.’
‘How do you think Mr Hallward came by them?’ asked Hannah.
‘There were payments, to various clerks,’ said Cullen. ‘Generous ones. They would receive money every month, whether they were able to procure any information or not, on the condition that they pass on anything related to Mr Hallward or the newspaper. He must’ve been paying them for some time, and all they were able to find was the occasional letter from Duchamp to a friend, complaining about Hallward’s editorials. But then one of them did find something a little more interesting.’
‘What?’
‘You will see. It was only one letter, but it started everything. And then Hallward turned to Peter. I begged him not to – but given the lad’s skill as a pickpocket, Hallward thought an occasional raid on the mail cart might prove fruitful. And it did. They must have eventually realised that letters were going missing. They dried up, were probably being privately delivered. But by then Mr Hallward had enough to be going on with. Please, be careful. Both of you.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘You especially, missus.’
‘We will,’ she said. ‘By the time they know we have them, it will be too late for them to do anything about it.’
There were four letters, and three of those were merely notes, cryptic and seemingly innocent unless one knew the context. Late into the night Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney pored over them at the small table in the boarding house parlour, while Miss Douglas paced in her room on the floor above, clearly not trusting her guests to douse the fire before bed. Whenever her foot hit a particularly noisy floorboard, Monsarrat started. ‘Cullen has me believing these letters have the power of attraction – soldiers at the door, that kind of thing,’ he said.
‘If you ever accuse me of superstition again …’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘We are perfectly safe.’ She paused. ‘Unless someone was watching the newspaper. Or the coachman informed on us.’
‘Or Peter slipped up, the poor boy. Let something out, made Miss Duchamp suspicious. Or Lethbridge said something.’
‘I’m reasonably confident of him.’
‘As am I, but I see shadows everywhere now, and one cannot always rely on people’s good nature.’
She stared at him, and while he was used to seeing her irritated, what he saw moving across her face now disorientated him, as though someone other than his friend was in control of her muscles. ‘Don’t you think I know that, Mr Monsarrat?’ she said. ‘I got a glimpse of the good nature of your countrymen when they piked my father through.’
‘My dear lady, I do apologise. Of course, you’re right.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Mr Monsarrat, I’m just tired. And feeling the silence coming from Padraig.’ She shuffled papers in front of her, then held one up. ‘Scented paper – the same stationery Henrietta used to send me a note telling me she was ill.’ Hannah looked down. ‘It’s addressed to someone know
n as Dearest G. Urging him to keep faith. Reminding him of his obligation to support the governor. It says, “I know you understand the importance of our cause, and that you can be relied on to assist in it, keenly aware as you are of the consequences of failure and the rewards of success – the end of the Chronicle and the supremacy of the Flyer.” A threat, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know. Mobbs seems fairly committed. I think this is from him.’ Monsarrat held up a note in a cramped hand, which simply read:
Errand unsuccessful, I’m afraid. However, I do hope you enjoy your copy of this morning’s newspaper. I know you like to stay informed.
‘That would be the break-in, I suppose,’ said Monsarrat. ‘The one they fought the duel over.’
The most revealing letters were those in rounded, sloped handwriting – the kind that Monsarrat had seen on Duchamp’s desk. One said:
I trust you received the deeds to the house. I do, of course, wish you to enjoy this property, but must remind you of the purpose for which it was given. Our mutual friend will be visiting frequently to assist with preparations.
The other, also addressed to Mobbs, attached a clipping from the Chronicle: the editorial in which Hallward had decried the governor’s treatment of the two soldiers. Duchamp had written:
The damage this man is doing to the stability of the colony is incalculable. I believe he sees it as an amusement, his own form of bearbaiting, perhaps. He cares little for the consequences. But if he continues unchecked, he will undermine faith in the administration, and I hardly need outline for you what that means. The reversion of this colony to a state of equilibrium depends on public trust in government. You will, of course, need to be occasionally critical, so that when the Chronicle closes there is no outcry, no perception that freedom of speech is being curtailed. And thereafter I look forward to the business of government being communicated without theatrics: soberly, fairly, and for the good of all of those in the colony.
Monsarrat read the passage to Mrs Mulrooney.
‘You can’t just march up to Duchamp and challenge him, though,’ she said. ‘You would not return from that meeting. And don’t forget why we’re here. Yes, it seems as though they all had some involvement in the murder. But there is still no proof.’
‘No, we don’t even know for sure what kind of firearm was used. We think it was a pistol, but thanks to Dr Merrick’s orderly, there is no longer even a …’
Monsarrat stopped talking, his mouth hanging open, a frown gathering.
‘A what?’
‘My dear lady, I am a fool.’
‘Not all the time.’
‘It was a pistol ball that killed Hallward.’
‘Yes, so you’ve said.’
‘And Donnelly told me Duchamp was practically in love with his pistols. I bet he would have liked nothing better than to kill Hallward with the pistol he had intended to use to dispatch him at the duel.’
Mrs Mulrooney stood and walked to the window. ‘How would that have been possible?’
‘Donnelly explained to me that Duchamp’s duelling pistol was rifled – giving it increased accuracy and range. Not as good as a Baker rifle, but, still, not bad – especially if there was some kind of sight fitted.’
‘But Duchamp has an alibi – didn’t you tell me he was busy at the time of the murder?’
‘Yes. Inspecting the troops – I checked. It wouldn’t stop him from giving the pistol to someone else, of course.’
‘Henrietta? We know she wasn’t where she said she was. Or Mobbs? How can you prove it, though?’
Monsarrat sighed. ‘I can’t. There’s his debunked alibi, although that in itself isn’t proof. And it’s almost certain it was Duchamp who changed the clock at the gaol – he was there at the time. But is it completely incontrovertible proof? No.’
‘Unless …’ Mrs Mulrooney walked over to the table and picked up the letters. ‘Perhaps you won’t have these tomorrow. Perhaps you will have already sent them somewhere else – pretend you have, at least. Somewhere beyond the colonel’s reach, his influence. The Times of London? Would that be a sufficiently fearsome prospect?’
‘Perhaps – although even if it is, it’s hard to see how that would induce him to confess to a murder.’
‘Oh, he’ll never confess to it. Especially if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, Mr Monsarrat, it is that some people will happily sacrifice others when it’s convenient. And Duchamp strikes me as just the type.’
Chapter 23
‘I’m paying you good money, and I won’t do it for sub-standard tea!’
Monsarrat had rarely heard Mrs Mulrooney use such a tone with anyone apart from himself.
They had gone to bed only a few hours before, after Monsarrat had made two fair copies of the letters and Hallward’s story; the originals would soon be out of Duchamp’s reach. For Monsarrat, the night had been more a series of consecutive dozes, his mind unable to rest as it absorbed the contents of the letters. It seemed his friend hadn’t fared much better. She had barely nodded at him when she walked into the parlour.
‘And it’s not the leaves’ fault,’ she called back to Miss Douglas. ‘You simply don’t let them steep long enough. It’s like drinking from a forest floor puddle. My friend and I have –’
‘Your friend?’ said Miss Douglas.
‘My nephew, I should say, and I have need for sustenance today.’
Monsarrat smiled kindly at Mrs Mulrooney. ‘I take it you had a restless night too,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t deserve the name “night”.’
‘At least we know what we must do. Straight to the house as soon as I’ve spoken to Duchamp.’
‘Yes, but I think we need to change the plan.’
‘We went over this endlessly last night, my dear lady. If we start changing things, introduce uncertainty, we increase our peril, and Peter’s.’
‘I’m thinking of Peter. Once Duchamp knows what we have, what’s to stop them sending someone on a fast horse to make sure the lad can never talk about his incarceration?’ said Mrs Mulrooney.
‘My bet is the colonel will be distracted by his need to send someone to the dock when I tell him the letters are already on board a ship waiting to sail. If there is a full-scale search of departing ships, we will know we have hit a nerve. While Peter … well, as far as Duchamp knows, he isn’t going anywhere. He doesn’t know we know Peter’s location. It is a risk, but one I don’t see a way around.’
She didn’t respond; she did, though, set down a cup of tea in front of Monsarrat, fragrant and sweet.
‘I swear, this stuff has probably saved my life on numerous occasions,’ Monsarrat said. He put his hand on hers. ‘We may save quite a few other lives today. Peter, in the immediate term. But who knows how many people will perish if the government decides to take a more authoritarian bent?’
Mrs Mulrooney nodded. ‘I know, I know, Mr Monsarrat. Let’s make sure you are not among them. I ask only one thing.’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘At least let’s tell Cullen our plans. The poor man is out of his mind with worry.’
‘He won’t be any less worried when he hears what we intend to do,’ said Monsarrat.
‘Perhaps not, but he will have the truth. We can give him that, even if we can’t give him anything else. I could leave when you leave to meet Duchamp. I’d see Cullen, then join you at Government House.’
‘You take the coach, then.’
‘No, Mr Monsarrat, you have a task to entrust Mr McCarthy with. It’s important that you arrive in a manner befitting a man of your standing – Duchamp notices these things. I will be fine – I’m known in that area now. And as you can see, I don’t intend to dress like a candidate for pickpocketing.’ She stood up and smoothed down her black servant’s skirt.
‘I don’t like it, but what chance have I of talking you out of it?’
‘None, as you very well know,’ she said. ‘Now let’s get you so
mething to eat – you’re going to need it. I know how vague you get on an empty stomach.’
Hannah stood at the door of the boarding house, watching the coach move off. She took a heavy cloak from a peg inside the guesthouse door, wrapped herself in it and moved in the other direction.
Fifteen minutes later she was hammering on the Chronicle’s door. It was opened almost instantly by a red-eyed Cullen.
‘You’ve slept no better than me, by the looks of it,’ she said.
‘Today might be the last for all of us. You. Mr Monsarrat. Peter. Me. I didn’t want to close my eyes when I might soon be closing them forever.’
‘Well, it’s not my first last day,’ she said. ‘Mr Monsarrat is on his way to confront the colonel.’
‘What? Then he’s signing Peter’s death warrant!’
‘No, we won’t allow that to happen. If you let me in, I can explain – probably not the wisest for me to be seen on the street passing time with you. And I have something just as valuable as information.’ She held up a small cloth drawstring bag and opened it; Cullen peered inside as the fragrance of tea wafted up to meet him.
He smiled. ‘A small pool of light in the darkness. You, as well as the tea. Mrs Mulrooney, it has never given me greater pleasure to invite someone into this newspaper office.’ He opened the door fully, stood aside, and gave her his estimation of a courtly bow as she entered.
It wasn’t until Monsarrat was close to his destination that he wondered about Mrs Mulrooney’s insistence he take the coach. His appearance without an appointment or an invitation would seem odd enough, particularly to the protocol-obsessed colonel. If Monsarrat arrived in a coach when they were used to him arriving on foot, the addition of another unexpected element might be enough to spook them.
But really, there was no choice, because McCarthy and Sally had a job to do.
