Cobram
Wednesday 14 September
Standing dead-still in the doorway of the Cobram police station, Fitz figured it was too late to back out and ride away.
His older brother, John, a constable, glanced up from a cluttered desk and surprise flickered on his face. He gave a grunt. ‘Well, if it isn’t Fitzmorgan O’Shea. God-awful time to see you, first thing in the bloody morning. Ruins me day.’
Fitz shifted the saddlebags onto his other shoulder and swiped off his hat. ‘Not my fault yours is the only country station for miles along the Murray.’
John leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘In truth, it’s not mine. I’m on a few months’ secondment, if you like, while the local fella, Stillard, is away.’ His dark reddish-brown hair was unkempt and scraggly, and a patchy stubble dotted his cheeks and chin. ‘You gonna just gawk at me or you gonna tell me what you’re doin’ here?’ Despite the curiosity, his gaze was flat.
Fitz had rarely been able to read John. They were as unlike as brothers could be. Dropping the bags, he pulled over a chair. On the other side of the desk, John hadn’t moved to stand or to shake his hand. No love lost there. ‘I’m doing what I always do. Tracking down a good story, selling it to the highest bidder.’
John’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the good story around here?’
‘Haven’t found it yet.’
‘And why don’t I believe you? You’ve found something or you wouldn’t be here,’ John said. ‘You’ll grab hold of it and not let it go until you’ve shaken the blasted life out of it.’ He straightened and pointed a finger. ‘And that’s what gets you into trouble time and time again. If your story’s police business, leave it with me.’
Fitz held both hands in the air. ‘I’m just a journalist trying to make a living.’
‘You’re a roaming troublemaker who writes a few yarns. You’re always runnin’. I heard your last story got you chased out of Ballarat.’
The news had obviously beat him, even to an outpost like this.
‘Wouldn’t say “chased”, exactly.’
Fitz had fled town. He’d upset a crooked trooper taking standover money from gold merchants, one of them his good friend, Gideon Levi. Fitz had written an article, an exposé, and had taken it to the Ballarat Courier. Now his name was mud with the local constabulary.
Raff, his close mate, had laughed. ‘I’ll make sure you get out safely, keep you out of trouble.’
Early one morning, they’d left Ballarat and had ridden hard, skirting Bendigo.
‘No need to go there,’ Raff stated as they edged the town.
‘True,’ Fitz said. ‘Don’t want to unduly worry anyone.’
Neither had elaborated. Raff, smitten with Evie Emerson and believing she was Fitz’s, wanted to steer clear of her. Fitz, not ready to let him believe otherwise, had to avoid a possible meeting with Evie in case the truth came out. It was deceit—but he had to do it. Fitz couldn’t quite let the idea of Evie go, not when he might still need her himself.
Anyway, avoiding Bendigo would stump the crook troopers, he and Raff agreed, so they’d kept east of the town, going through Kyneton. They rode via Axedale for Elmore, a little railway station on the line north, where Fitz got on the train to Echuca, his horse with him.
‘Watch your back,’ Fitz had said to Raff last thing before he boarded. ‘They know we’re friends. They might come after you.’
‘Let ’em try, mate,’ Raff replied, then flexed his hands, his fingers knotty. ‘Can’t wait.’ He grinned, teeth flashing, and turned for home on horseback.
That was well over a week ago. Raff would have been a handy offsider for the story looming here in the river district. Fitz should have tried harder to convince him to stay around. But Raff had his workshop and his old pa to look after. Fitz would telegram if he needed him.
Now in Cobram, the last person Fitz wanted on his tail was his brother, a trooper, Constable John O’Shea, but here he was. Of all people to run into, dammit.
‘Sounded like “chased” to me,’ John said, interrupting Fitz’s thoughts. ‘You should get a real job, mate.’
‘Like you?’ Fitz gave the office a once-over. Two desks, papers strewn about, files piled high on the records cabinet. ‘No thanks.’
John gave him a look. A muscle worked in his jaw; he wasn’t happy to see Fitz, that was clear.
Can’t help that. Pity Fitz hadn’t thought to learn before his arrival where John was stationed. ‘Last I heard you were down Beechworth way,’ he said.
‘Did you?’ John said, his eye twitching.
‘Is your good wife Edith here with you?’ That would rub his brother the wrong way. Mention of Edith was out of bounds.
A fixed glare, no twitch, a beat or two then John took a breath. ‘Edith decided to stay with her parents. That was two years ago.’ He’d married a woman who made him look a fool. He’d been warned about her and he couldn’t escape the truth of that.
‘Ah.’
‘Don’t start. Traipsing around the countryside wasn’t what she wanted.’
‘Thought a wife would want to go anywhere with her husband.’ A twinge of guilt rippled through him. He’d suggested as much to Evie.
‘Leave it off.’ John’s frown darkened. ‘I doubt you’ve got yourself a wife, have ye?’ An unfriendly glitter gleamed in his brother’s stare. ‘Didn’t think so. What d’you want around here then?’
Fitz slapped his hands on his knees. ‘I’ll know it when I see it, I reckon.’
‘Or you might just push on.’
Smiling, Fitz stood and shrugged. ‘Or I might stay awhile.’
Papers slid to the floor as John thrust to his feet and leaned over the desk. ‘Got somewhere to stay?’
‘Recommend anywhere for me?’
John shook his head, knuckles on the desk. ‘No.’
‘I’ll find a place.’
‘Got a gun with you?’ John asked.
Fitz saw something else in his brother’s eyes, something he hadn’t expected to see. Fear, maybe. ‘Rifle’s on the saddle,’ he said, guarded. Last thing he wanted was physical danger.
‘Bunk where I’m staying. There’s a room.’ Gruff and short.
Fitz’s journalist nose twitched. He hefted the bags over his shoulder, shook his head. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Suit yourself.’
He would. Turning on his heels, outside he mounted up and took the road to Main Street, looking for a hotel. He rode about half a mile and he couldn’t miss it. Cobram Hotel was the place to be. A two-storey brick building with a balcony.
Fitz hired a stall in the stable for his horse, Patto, then he headed for the bar. The hotel was busy, which surprised him, being a weekday. Seated away from the fug of tobacco smoke, he ordered a rum. Laughter and good-humoured jibes were all around him. Clusters of men stood close by, a couple of dusty, sweat- and oil-stained stockmen leaned on the bar, the few tables inside crowded with drinkers. For once, he let the noise roll. Snatching a word here or there might give him some useful leads. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them, but he needed a conversation started. The story he was chasing was here; he’d come out of Ballarat with it.
Glancing around, Fitz tried to figure out who was who in the town, but they all appeared like workers from the district’s runs. Then again, they’d be the best people to start with—if they’d talk to a stranger like him. Maybe someone would let go with local hearsay; Fitz would know what to do from there. He checked over his shoulder. No one interesting to look at, and no interested looks his way. No one was taking any notice of—
‘Not much work around here, mate.’ The bartender had wandered close to Fitz’s end of the counter. He could have been a stockman. Shirt sleeves rolled up, big, brawny hands, a thatch of straw-coloured hair on his head and a moustache the same. Coinsized pale freckles splotched his face and forearms. Only thing missing was his hat. It wouldn’t be far away.
‘Same everywhere,’ Fitz agreed.
‘Just visitin’ folk then?’
‘Stop-off only. Come up from’—a great guffaw from a bloke standing close by gave Fitz time to steer clear of mentioning Ballarat—‘uh, Horsham way, looking for some land on something bigger than the Wimmera River.’
‘Got the right river here, but not much land available. Gets snatched up pretty quick these days by folk who’ve got the money.’
‘I heard there was a small piece, close to town.’ Fitz kept his voice low, reached into his pocket and slapped down a coin for a refill.
The barman hesitated. ‘Haven’t heard anything’s for sale.’
That hesitation right there. For sale. The crux of it. It wasn’t for sale. Fitz knew the owner was being pressured to sell. ‘That right? Well, everyone wants something on the river, I know that for a fact. Place to be.’
The barman poured him another, palmed the coin, dropped it in the till behind him. ‘Sure is,’ he said turning back, leaning on his fists. ‘When it’s not in flood.’
‘True enough. I know irrigation is going ahead downriver, Mildura, Renmark,’ Fitz said. ‘I’ve heard talk that the powersthat-be want to lock the Murray and put in weirs.’
‘Been the talk since ninety-three or earlier, up there in Corowa, at that Federation rally,’ the barman said. ‘New South Wales got free trade, and here in Vic we got protections. Most folk livin’ on the river just want a fair go. They dunno if they’re Arthur or Martha. Riverboat traders have been wanting better controlled flow for years.’
‘Bugger South Australia though, hey?’
‘That colony’s got no rivers comin’ off the Murray, is why. They get natural flow, that’s it.’
Fitz took a swig, wanting to keep the barman talking. ‘You know a bit about it.’
The big man shrugged. ‘Born here, and the river’s a lifeline. Gotta know what’s goin’ on around the place.’ He nodded at a bloke who took a seat alongside Fitz. ‘What’ll it be, Mr Haines, the usual?’
‘Usual, Big Tim.’
Haines nodded at Fitz. ‘One of the boys over there said you were looking for land.’
Fitz was slipping. Someone must have heard him. ‘Just on the off-chance I might be able to afford something. I don’t know the area well. Might not suit, might keep going yet, maybe Yarrawonga way.’
‘Good plan, it’s not bad up there.’ The man held out his hand. ‘Ernest Haines.’ He had a mop of thick and wavy greying hair, a heavy moustache to match. Not lean, not paunchy, a man comfortable in his skin. Shrewd and confident.
Fitz, used to being sized up, took the proffered hand, leathery and callused. ‘Fitz Morgan,’ he said. The O’Shea part of his name needn’t be aired now he knew his brother was stationed here as a trooper.
Big Tim landed a large glass in front of Haines, likely a whisky. No money exchanged hands.
‘Yeah,’ Haines said, nodding. ‘Yarrawonga’s the place to be, for sure, if you’re lookin’. Not me, though.’
Fitz kept it conversational. ‘You got land here, then?’
‘I have. Coupla reasonable-sized runs with frontage, upriver a bit.’
Fitz tried again. ‘Sheep, cattle?’
‘Sheep right now, but with good water, irrigation, I might venture into orchards, maybe crops. Dunno. You?’
Haines hadn’t told him anything. Fitz would extend the same.
‘Not sure myself. I’ll know it when I see it.’ He was barely lukewarm on the idea, not genuinely interested. He’d avoided it so far: settling somewhere, attempting to eke out a living in the dirt. Chasing a good story was far more interesting. Besides, it would take careful planning to choose where to settle. Oh, for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t gonna do that, it was still too dangerous to stay in one spot, and for more than one reason. No, he was roving, much as he could without making a mistake, and a good thing too. If he needed to revisit the idea of settling down with a woman, he’d try again. He just didn’t like the idea much, or at all.
‘Pity there’s no land available around here then.’ Haines took a swig.
Big Tim moved away, brows slightly raised.
Fitz was being warned off. Yep, and that was fuel for a journalist’s fire. ‘There might be. Sometimes folk don’t know they want to sell up until someone asks,’ he said, ‘or they might be in trouble and could do with the money, needing to move on.’ He stared into his glass, the rum warming his gut, and waited.
‘True enough, but I reckon most people will wanna sit tight for a while yet.’ Haines took a long swallow and stood. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Morgan.’ He nodded at Fitz then at the barman and wove his way through the crowded bar until he disappeared out the door.
Fitz slid another coin over the counter. That’ll do; three rums was more than enough. Big Tim poured then hovered with the bottle. When Fitz shook his head, he turned for other rowdy patrons clamouring for a drink.
A man spoke low near Fitz’s ear. ‘If Mr Haines thought to drop you a few words of wisdom, mate, I’d be takin’ notice.’ He slid onto the stool Haines had vacated, his gaze on Big Tim. At a glance, his hat was oily from his hair, his grey whiskers patchy, the wrinkles deep around his eyes. Grime tracked the goosy skin over his collar. Gnarled knuckles deformed hands the size of dinner plates that rested on his knees.
Fitz looked away. ‘Sounds like a threat.’
‘Nah, mate. Yer new in town and he just likes to think he runs the joint, wants yer to know who’s who. He’s a land-hungry bastard, and Big Tim’s on his books so watch what you say there, too.’ He went quiet. ‘Just lettin’ you know.’
Big Tim approached. ‘Robbo,’ he said, all genial. ‘Usual?’ The man nodded. ‘How you goin’ on your place, this weather?’
‘Same as everyone.’ Big Tim glanced from one to the other, sat a glass of rum in front of Robbo, took the proffered coins and moved away again.
Robbo spoke under his breath, focused on his hands. ‘Heard ye mention wantin’ land. There’s talk of an irrigation scheme for this place, but some are scared. If there is such a thing, no one knows how it’s gonna work, how much water we’ll be allowed to take outta the river, or who gets what. Haines wants to set himself up big before anyone else. If you’re after buying land on the river, watch yourself.’ His glance was furtive.
Fitz shifted his shoulders, moved on the seat. ‘He said there’s nothing for sale.’
‘Only one piece he wants. He don’t want no one else vyin’ for it, neither. It’s three mile out, sits smack bang in the middle of two of his properties on this side of the border. He owns big frontage on the opposite side too, and just this one piece is holdin’ him up. Belongs to a mate o’ mine.’
‘So, where’s your mate?’
‘No one knows. He took off, his wife left on her own out there. Just yest’dy I went to check on her. No one home, but the place looked like she’d upped and took off, plates and stuff all left like she was havin’ her dinner. Up and gone. Possums have been in and got the lot.’
‘She’s gone?’
‘Nowhere to be found. Left a kid in a grave a while back, dunno why she’d just wander off.’ His eyes glistened, darted around. ‘Hard.’
Big Tim wandered back. ‘How’s the missus, Robbo?’
‘Fine, fine.’
‘Whaddya reckon about all this irrigation talk?’ Big Tim asked, a sneaky wink at Fitz as if to say he was having some fun.
‘Don’t reckon nothin’ about it. Got a new pump comin’.’ Robbo downed his drink, and the stool scraped on the floor as he got to his feet. ‘Like I was sayin’,’ he said to Fitz, keeping his voice as low as he had earlier. Big Tim was earwigging. ‘You’ll get a good pair o’ boots at McFadyen’s store, so get to Punt Road up Station Street.’ He cocked his head to the left. ‘I’m headin’ there meself, I’ll tell ’em to expect yer directly.’ He nodded and pushed away, heading outside.
Fitz’s couple of rums were taking effect. He didn’t need the third one still sitting on the bar, sure that Robbo meant for him to follow.
Big Tim took his time polishing a couple of glasses. ‘There’s a lot of folk don’t trust this idea of Federation and what’s gonna happen with the river. Them politicians have to settle on somethin’ about the water else they’re not gonna have themselves a constitution, and so, no Federation.’ He set down a glass, picked up another.
It was crucial for Victoria and South Australia, two colonies that could hold up the Federation works, that water from the Murray was accessible.
‘You’re in the know about all that, too,’ Fitz said.
‘Anyone who cares to know about it, knows. Still, a lot of people don’t trust it. Robbo’s one of them. Gets all skittish these days. Sees the devil on every corner. His people have got paddle-steamers out of Echuca and downriver Renmark way. Says navigation’s gotta be protected, water flow an’ all. If not, his family’s life’s work is finished.’ He snorted. ‘Drought don’t get yer, the gov’ment will.’
Fitz had taken a ride on a steamer from Echuca to get here. There were plenty of boats still working the river, but the writing was on the wall. ‘The railways have opened things up. Have to expect river trade to slow down at some point.’
‘True enough, but sad to see ’em go. Riverboats have done us proud a while.’ Nodding at his insight, Big Tim turned away to shelve the glasses.
Fitz poured most of his third rum onto the floor, cursing the waste of his money. Leaving a slurp in the glass, he made a show of downing it when Big Tim turned back. ‘Right, thanks for the chat. Might see you again.’ He stood.
‘Where are you staying in town?’
‘Camp by the river, I reckon,’ Fitz said. He wouldn’t be staying the night in the pub, and that’s all Big Tim needed to know.
Outside, he swung left; Robbo had nodded in this direction. He set off on foot, didn’t need to take Patto from the stable. Across the road on his right was the newspaper office. Now why hadn’t he noticed that before? He’d drop in on his way back to the hotel to see if the town’s reporter was in.
Robbo strode up ahead, his lopsided gait distinctive. Fitz kept a good pace behind, not wanting to catch up until the store was in sight. But the man stopped at a crossroads, and beckoned Fitz around to the right.
‘Why me?’ Fitz asked when he fell in step alongside. ‘Why did I need to know all that?’
‘Because that bastard Haines got in yer ear. He warned you off, didn’t he, in not so many words.’ Robbo marched along the dusty path by the road, which was hard and hot underfoot. ‘Name’s Cyril Robinson. Robbo.’ He nodded across at Fitz, didn’t offer his hand.
‘Fitz Morgan.’
Robbo pointed. ‘There’s McFadyen’s.’
The store loomed, a big timber place with large windows, a hitching rail and water trough close by.
‘I don’t need a store,’ Fitz said. ‘What I need is to get a look at the place Haines warned me off.’
Robbo rubbed his face, reached into his pocket for a tobacco pouch. ‘Why that one in particular?’
Fitz didn’t need to elaborate. He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘Because of Haines.’ Robbo had the makings of a smoke rolling in his fingers. ‘He wants the place, and me mate’s not there, can’t be found. Unless the rates and whatnot are paid, the gov’ment will take it back, and Haines will get his hands on it. Somethin’s not right.’
‘What about the police? What do they know?’
They got to the hitching rail and Robbo leaned on it. He finished making the roll-up, stuck it between his lips and struck a match to light it. ‘The usual fella is away for a while and there’s some new bloke there. Doesn’t seem keen to investigate too much, even if someone shoved a crime up his nose.’
Fitz remembered seeing the flash of fear, or something akin to it, behind John’s eyes. ‘What do you think has happened out on this piece of land?’
Robbo shook his head. ‘Dunno, dunno. But where’s me mate, Roy, and now where’s his missus?’
‘You said you were out there yesterday.’
‘Bloody strange feelin’.’ Robbo inhaled and blew out a plume. ‘Dinner table left like that an’ all.’ He left the smoke dangling in the side of his mouth and rubbed his hands together hard. ‘I was lookin’ to see if Roy’s missus needed a hand. I been out there before. Sometimes took Jenny, me missus, but she wasn’t with me this time.’ He shook his head again. ‘I had a quick look around, the possums hadn’t been in for long but …’ He shook out his hands, agitated, fidgety.
‘I have to go by the newspaper office, but after that,’ Fitz said, ‘what say we meet up the road and you take me out there?’ At Robbo’s hesitation, he said, ‘If you reckon the police aren’t interested, maybe you and I can work out what’s happened. Might be nothing. Maybe she’s gone visiting.’
Still Robbo weighed up his options, his gaze darting over Fitz’s shoulder.
‘Tell you what,’ Fitz said. ‘Just point me in the right direction, and if you want to come with me, let’s meet in an hour.’
A curt nod. ‘About a mile that way,’ Robbo said, ‘there’s a stone cairn yea high’—he tapped his hip—‘on the left. You’ll see the track easy enough from there.’ He pushed off the rail and headed into the store.
Fitz turned back the way he’d come. His friend, Gideon Levi, the gold merchant he’d helped in Ballarat, had a brother-in-law who owned land somewhere here. What was the fella’s name? Was it ‘Roy’? Perhaps it rang a bell, but they mostly talked in surnames. Badley? Barklay? Fitz didn’t want to show his hand by asking Robbo.
Gideon had told Fitz how the man was trying to keep it viable, but that there’d been vigorous pressure from another landholder to sell. Gideon and his wife Rachel were worried; when last they’d heard from her brother, he’d mentioned trouble. Was this tale of Robbo’s Gideon’s tale, or were there others being harassed in the district?
Intrigue and a good story—and the urgent need to get out of Ballarat—had set Fitz on his path. He might as well come to this area of the colony as any other to expose corruption. Reporting on it might take the eye of a big editor somewhere and pay good money. Keep him able to rove a little longer.