Cobram
Thursday 15 September
The next morning, the heat hadn’t yet climbed, but still sweat dripped from under Fitz’s hat. He swiped it away with his forearm. The day was shaping up to be warmer than yesterday.
John sidled his horse up alongside. ‘Robinson says he was showing you over the place yesterday, Mr Morgan.’
There was a tacit understanding that neither mentioned they were brothers.
‘That’s right, Constable,’ Fitz answered.
‘Why this place?’
‘I wanted to know why Haines is interested in it. Easy to see now.’
John grunted. ‘It’s a good spot, all right, and the fact is that he owns over there far as you can see,’ he said, waving an arm left and right towards the other side of the river. ‘Either side of this place on this bank is his, too.’
Late the afternoon previously, Fitz and Robbo had brought a blanket from the house and pinned it over Mrs Bayley’s body with rocks, then they’d headed off, agreeing to meet early back at the property. Fitz had nevertheless declined the offer of a bed at Robbo’s. He’d camped by the river near town, falling asleep on his swag, wiped out with exhaustion, decay still cloying in his nostrils. He’d roused John at daybreak and together they had ridden out.
Robbo had been at the Bayley property just after dawn. ‘I reckon she musta been lyin’ there when I last come out,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘I shoulda searched more.’
‘She’d have been well beyond help by then, Robbo,’ Fitz said.
‘Why did you wanna come back out here this morning?’ John asked, pulling his kerchief over his nose. ‘Bloody awful.’
Fitz took off his hat, scratched his head, wrinkled his nose. He’d needed a bath before now, but this reek was tangible, clinging to his clothes and permeating his skin. The body had already been out in the elements; she needed to be buried as soon as possible. ‘Someone’s got to do right by the poor woman.’
John lifted his chin in the direction of the grave. ‘Dunno how we’re gonna take her back to town. Got no steel coffin to transport a rotting body.’
Fitz lowered his voice, leaned out of his saddle a little. ‘Christ, John, she died over her baby’s grave. Bury her here. It’s her land.’ He thumbed over at Robbo. ‘We’ll do the digging. All you have to do is pronounce a cause of death for the coroner and the doc can write up a death certificate.’
‘I know what I have to do, thanks all the same,’ John grumbled. ‘I’ve done me fair share of this before now. I have to be sure she just up and died and that no one stoved her head in.’
Still mounted, Robbo was a little distance from the grave. He’d have heard the exchange, but Fitz wasn’t worried about Robbo hearing the overly familiar tone.
Horses sounded behind them. Ernest Haines and two others approached through the scrub.
‘Jesus,’ John muttered. ‘All I need.’
‘Constable,’ Haines called. ‘Good day.’ Then he pulled up his horse, wrinkling his nose. ‘Christ.’
‘Mr Morgan,’ Haines greeted Fitz, his kerchief pressed across his face. ‘Robbo,’ he said as an afterthought. ‘Looks like we got a tragedy,’ he said, eyeing the body covered with the blanket. ‘Was riding past this way to my place, thought I’d drop in to see if the missus was back home. Is that her?’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible thing. Reckon we could offer a hand somehow.’ He waved towards the two younger men, maybe his workers, and craned another look at the gravesite.
Robbo had dismounted and didn’t look happy. He walked his horse close to Fitz.
‘We’ll be right, Mr Haines,’ John said.
Nodding towards the body, Haines said, ‘Have to get a move on quick, this weather.’
‘Unless there’s something unusual the constable needs to report on,’ Fitz said, matter-of-fact.
John snapped him a look.
Haines’s saddle creaked as he shifted, the kerchief dropping a little. ‘You think there’s been foul play, Constable?’ he asked. ‘Shockin’, if so.’ He shook his head again at the thought.
‘Just tyin’ up loose ends, Mr Haines. The fellas here found her late yesterday.’
‘Did they now?’ Haines shifted his gaze to Fitz, then to Robbo where it lingered.
‘She’s been here a while,’ John said. ‘We’ll bury her directly.’
‘Surely you’ll take it back to town, not bury it here.’
At the hesitation from John, and the disquieting return stare from Robbo, Haines hurried on.
‘Well, the land will be—’
‘It is Miz Bayley,’ Robbo cut in, tight-lipped. ‘She’s already been out here a while, the constable said. Needs to be buried.’
Haines glared at him then at John, silenced and incensed.
‘We’ll be right,’ John repeated. ‘I’ll do up a report.’
Haines adjusted his seat in the saddle. ‘Well, if you—’
‘Good day to yer, Mr Haines,’ John said, his voice a little louder.
Haines shut up. ‘Boys,’ he said, a thumb over his shoulder. They rode off without looking back.
‘How’d they know where the grave was?’ Fitz mused. ‘Bit out of the way from the hut.’
‘He most prob’ly knows every inch of this place,’ John said.
Robbo started at that. ‘There wasn’t any foul play, was there?’ he asked, fright in his voice. ‘She just died, didn’t she?’
John had inspected the body when they’d arrived. ‘Hard to tell. She coulda been clobbered on the back of the head.’ He clamped his mouth shut as if holding back high emotion. Blinking hard, he said, ‘I’d say not murder. I reckon it was dingos or dogs did this damage after she was dead. Birds and other critters maybe had a go at her.’ He made fists on his hips, cast around, then slapped off his hat and kicked it. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ he exploded, lowering his head.
Fitz dismounted but made no attempt to go to his brother.
Robbo stalked off towards the cart. ‘There’s two shovels and a pick in here,’ he called out. ‘I’ll make a start with the pick beside the youngster’s grave.’
‘Mr Morgan.’ John beckoned Fitz and headed a little further out of Robbo’s earshot.
Nudging Patto, Fitz followed and dismounted with John. ‘What is it?’
‘Haines,’ he said and checked the man was long gone. ‘He came to see me yesterday afternoon, late. Said he thought the new fella by the name of Morgan looked a bit shady, that I was to watch him.’
‘That so?’
‘He said he didn’t like the look of you.’
Fitz raised his eyebrows. ‘He sending me a message through you?’
John snorted. ‘I’m tellin’ you to be careful. Yer still me brother, no matter what. The man’s a crook, no two ways about it. He can’t get past Constable Stillard, but it’s clear he reckons I’m soft.’
‘Thinks you’ll be handy in the future, does he?’
‘Don’t push it, Fitz.’ John tied his horse’s rein to a tree branch.
‘I can’t abide crooked troopers,’ Fitz said, scuffing the dirt.
‘I know.’ John began to walk then stopped, swung close. ‘So in case yer wonderin’, I’ll tell yer straight. I’m not in his pay. Not now, not ever.’ He stalked back to Robbo.
It took a couple of hours. When the hole was deep enough, they wrapped the body in the blanket as best they could and slipped her down. Robbo sniffed and snorted the whole time they cleared up the site, tossing grisly bits that had come loose from under the blanket into the hole. Then the dirt was shovelled and pushed back into the grave.
‘Should get a church fella out here to say some words for her, even though I dunno which—’ Robbo stopped, hat in his spadelike hands. ‘Won’t matter which though, will it? I’ll do up a couple more of these.’ He picked up the crude cross that had been on the boy’s grave. ‘The youngster needs a better one. I’ll put his name on it, poor tyke. Maybe take up a collection, see if we can get a stone done for mother and boy. Folk need their names on the stone.’ His voice jagged as he stared at the weathered little timbers.
Fitz could see the letter ‘D’ etched on the cross. ‘What was the boy’s name?’ he asked as he stood beside the new mound of dirt.
‘Dallas.’
Fitz raised his brows. ‘Uncommon.’ Something tickled his memory. Dallas. That had been Evie’s father’s name, Dallas Emerson.
‘Miz Bayley named the boy after her father.’
The clunk in Fitz’s chest took a moment to ease. ‘And Mrs Bayley, what was her first name?’ He already knew, should’ve figured it out before now. He’d learned years ago that Evie’s sister had married a man named Bayley from Ballarat and had headed up this way. Fitz had never met either of them, and had clearly forgotten the connection.
‘Meryl,’ Robbo answered. ‘Meryl, Roy and little Dallas Bayley.’ He inhaled and blew out a big breath. ‘Now none of ’em are left.’
Gideon Levi’s brother-in-law was Roy Bayley. He had married Meryl Emerson.
Jesus Christ, I’ve just buried Evie’s sister.
Robbo had headed home, peeling off at the cairn. Fitz rode Patto alongside the cart as John drove it back to town.
John was silent a while. Then, ‘Need to wash up my uniform. I got a bath at my place, and plenty of carbolic soap. You an’ me both need to get rid of the stink,’ he said. ‘Won’t charge yer,’ he added, a twist of sarcasm aimed at his brother.
Fitz snorted. ‘Appreciate it.’
‘Is that right, what you said before, that you knew the dead woman?’
‘Hadn’t met her. Knew of her, she’s the sister of a friend.’
Fitz hadn’t told any family about Evie; no need. He would have if he’d been able to go through with marrying her. It hadn’t come to pass, thankfully for him. For both. Fitz knew that he’d never manage living with a woman, being married. Even now his heart rate climbed when he remembered he’d even considered it.
Fitz didn’t yearn for a woman in his life; never had. He yearned for a companion, yes, a lover, but not a woman.
Augie, Augustus Pine, had been Fitz’s lover years ago. But he had chosen to leave Fitz and marry a woman. He’d bowed to family pressure, the wrath and threats of his father. Self-preserving; Fitz understood it. He hadn’t condemned Augie, but his heart had broken and his life had cleaved into pieces.
Fitz had hung on to Evie, he admitted that. If he changed his mind about pursuing a ‘normal’ life he’d need to marry. Coward. For good reason, he chided. If the famous, like Oscar Wilde, that genius Irish poet and playwright could be incarcerated for the way he lived, Fitz knew what form of justice would be meted out to him for living the same style of life.
He hung his head, a moment’s guilt spiking. It would have been grossly unjust to Evie to fool her. He’d been selfish, petulant too, not wanting Raff to step right in. My best mate. He should’ve been honest with Raff, should’ve let him know that Evie was free of any promises to Fitz.
Bah. No real urgency now. Evie wasn’t wasting time over Fitz, he was sure, and Raff, the great dolt, hadn’t done anything about pursuing Evie either. Maybe he didn’t feel strongly enough. Well, they were adults; they could work it out.
Even so, he knew he should’ve said something to Raff. He would.
And now this. Meryl’s death. He sucked in a deep breath. Helluva bloody reason to have to contact Evie again. He wouldn’t leave it to the police, wouldn’t have John do it. It was personal.
Fitz would tell Evie himself.
John had pumped water for the boiler and, once it was hot enough, filled the tub alongside and set about having a bath in the open air.
‘Better not to stink up the house.’
Afterwards, he pulled on clean clothes, tossed out the water and refreshed the tub. Dunking underwear, socks and uniform, he scrubbed up a lather. Rinsed it all in another tub of clean water and repeated until he couldn’t detect the odour of decay.
‘I’m done with bloody laundry. I’m headin’ back to the station,’ he said, flinging wet clothes over the line strung between two poles.
Fitz was carting water to the boiler for his bath. ‘I’ll see you there directly.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ John said. ‘Haines is already suspicious of you.’ Pulling on socks and boots, he said, ‘You were sniffing around for land, and now he sees you and Robbo out at the Bayley place, the patch of dirt he wants. I’ll never hear the end of it.’ He rubbed his face tiredly. ‘Just watch yourself, mate.’
‘What is it about Haines?’
‘Just take advice for once and leave it alone,’ John said and reached for his police cap, pulled a face, then tossed it onto Fitz’s filthy clothes. ‘Get that scrubbed up for me, will yer?’ He didn’t wait for an answer.
The bath and soap were good, and Fitz could have been easily tempted to lounge in the warm water, but he wasn’t going to linger. The fire underneath the boiler was roaring and by the time he’d dried off and dressed, the copper was ready. He tossed in his stinking pants and shirt. Unders went in too, John’s cap, his hat, dunked with the dolly stick and a good dose of lye. When done, he scrubbed off the soles of his boots just to be sure. Wringing everything tight as possible (Jesus, hard work), he started pegging it alongside John’s sodden, dripping clothes, when he heard a voice behind him.
‘Real domesticated. Could make yourself some good money doing laundry.’ Haines was on his horse in the lane behind the house, hands relaxed, the reins draped between them. ‘Our Constable O’Shea must have taken a shine to you.’
‘We both stank. He said I could take a bath here. Decent of him.’ Fitz hung the last of his clothes and swiped wet hair from his face. He missed wearing his hat. ‘He’s gone to the station.’
Haines nodded. ‘So, what did you think of that piece of land?’
‘Wasn’t expecting to see a dead woman on it.’
‘Yeah, uh, awful shame.’ Haines straightened in the saddle. ‘Well, reckon I better get along to the station and see the constable.’ He tipped his hat and turned his horse.
‘Mr Haines,’ Fitz called. ‘Heard you were interested in that piece of land.’
Haines stopped, twisted in the saddle. ‘Might be, but we gotta find Bayley, he hasn’t been seen for months.’ At Fitz’s silence, he said, ‘Man might be dead. More likely he’s abandoned it, won’t be back. In which case the crown will take back the land, sell it on if the taxes can’t be paid. I’ll register my interest.’
‘What about if there’s kin?’
Haines’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about it?’
‘Wouldn’t the place go to them?’
‘Nah. Doesn’t work like that. Any case, his only kin is buried there.’ Haines sucked in a deep breath, seemed a show of sorrow. ‘Terrible thing.’
Fitz wandered closer to the fence, rested his arm on a post. ‘What do you think happened to Bayley?’
Haines looked at his hands a moment, then back at Fitz. ‘Just walked off the place, they say.’
‘Just like that? Left a wife and walked off.’
‘Happens.’ Tipping his hat, Haines nudged his horse. ‘Happens all the time.’ He headed off down the lane.
Fitz watched as the rider turned out of sight. Where to start? If Haines owned Big Tim and had other ears in the pub, how would he get to the bottom of what was going on here? He needed information, even hearsay, to follow up. Robbo could be key. Even though he’d been on edge he agreed with Fitz; Haines was in the thick of it.
While Fitz waited for his hat to dry, he checked over the house his brother was occupying. A timber dwelling with a kitchen hut out the back, and a long-drop dunny further away. Nothing special. The rooms inside were furnished for a family. Two bedrooms, one with a double bed, a small wardrobe and a dresser with a lamp on it; the other had two single cots and a small chest of drawers. John’s clothes sat in disarray in an open suitcase, the bedlinens unmade on one of the cots.
In the parlour room there were two lamps and a family photograph—two adults, two children—on a simple hutch filled with best china. A couple of low chairs and a deep settee were crammed close together facing the fireplace. A basket of ladies’ sewing paraphernalia sat under the window. A table the size of a milking stool was beside one of the chairs and an empty tea mug sat in the middle of it. John’s, no doubt.
He went back outside to Patto and his saddlebags. Rummaging, he pulled out a tightly wrapped packet and headed into the kitchen hut where, at the table, he unpacked an ink bottle and a nib pen, and some carefully folded paper. Now was as good a time as any to start an article for the local newspaper.
His thoughts went to the dead woman again. Meryl Emerson—Mrs Bayley—and what he should tell Evie. He had thought he should return to Bendigo and tell her face to face, but maybe he should write first and offer to bring her here, instead. What’s my place in all this? His place was to tell Evie, he owed her that, in friendship at least.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Dammit. In a strange way it had hurt, leaving her. It was their friendship. That had felt right. He cared for her, loved her maybe, but not in the way a wife needed to be loved. Not that she wanted to be his wife anyhow, she certainly hadn’t wanted to troop around the countryside behind him. The way he saw it, they’d saved each other from a lifetime of misery. Thank Christ he hadn’t tried to insist they marry. They were real friends and had, by all accounts, stayed that way.
So. He’d work out how to tell her about her sister after he got down a page for the paper. Taking a breath, he dipped the pen. Tapping off excess ink, he began to write.
Sir, it has come to this roving reporter’s attention that there are dire shenanigans regarding the safe purchase, or acquisition, of land in this area.
It took him an hour, and many stretches of his back and fingers. He walked outside to the well, drew up a bucket and poured a fresh pitcher of water. Taking a pannikin from the kitchen bench he knocked back two cups.
He wasn’t done yet. Two more to draft.
My dear Gideon and Rachel,
It is with much regret …
The letter was short. He couldn’t offer them any comfort; he knew nothing of Roy’s whereabouts or what had happened to him. Worse, all he had to give them was the saddest of news about Roy’s wife and son. He promised to keep searching for answers.
He dropped the pen, stood and rubbed his face vigorously. As a journalist, he could keep his emotions at bay. As a friend, he could not.
And now for the hardest one to pen. Settling at the table again, he let the words flow.
Dearest Evie,
My heart is heavy that I must be the bearer of sad tidings, however I am glad to be that person as your good friend, and not a stranger to you. Your sister, Meryl Bayley, has died here on her property in Cobram. This is what I know …
He finished up some long minutes later, ending it:
With heartfelt condolences, your old champion, Fitzmorgan.
Writing the letters had been hard. He needed to get outside again; the kitchen was closing him in. Impatient, he blotted the last of his work, and waited for it to dry. Then he folded and addressed both envelopes. He’d mail them soon.
The page for the newspaper was well dry. He folded that too, and wrote To the Editor on it. Then he tucked them all inside his shirt, went back to the clothesline and grabbed his dry hat. The rest of his clothes could wait until later.