15

MONDAY 9th JANUARY

SERGEANT LAWRENCE TELFORD WAS the first to greet Otto. He found the detective at 7.00 a.m., emerging from the police quarters, his hair and dress impeccable.

‘Your accommodation was to your satisfaction?’

‘Precisely as expected, Sergeant Telford,’ Otto said. ‘Where shall I find Superintendent Nicolson? The sooner we get underway, the better.’

If Telford had forgotten why he loathed this pompous little Prussian, this brief reacquaintance had been sufficient to remind him.

‘He’s on his morning walk. We’re to meet at the station at eight. If you come down there now, my wife has boiled some eggs for your breakfast.’

‘That’s very kind of her,’ Otto said, and was amused, for he knew Mrs Telford from Daylesford days, and he could be sure these eggs were not just country hospitality. Penelope was a woman with a wandering eye, and at first blush it might make no sense why the bovine sergeant should be paired with her. For Otto, it was proof of a favourite personal maxim: for everything in this world, however obscure or unlikely, there was an explanation. What better for such a woman than such a husband?

At first meeting, Superintendent Charles Nicolson was a humourless marriage of dour visage and Scottish brogue, albeit a tall and athletic one. Those in his circle knew him as a policeman of great pluck and zeal. Otto himself had the highest regard for Nicolson’s great feat of daring when, as a cadet, he had caught the murderous Van Diemonians O’Connor and Bradley. But like him? Not much.

Otto had only just returned from washing his hands when the man himself entered the room.

‘Berliner,’ he said, arm extended. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Pleasant journey?’

They shook hands, the grip desultory. ‘As pleasant as midnight coach journeys can be, Sir.’

Nicolson hadn’t wanted an answer; he’d already turned away to greet Superintendent Francis Reid and Detective Williams from Castlemaine, and Daylesford officers — Sergeant Telford and Trooper Henry Brady — as they filed in from the yard and took their seats around the table. Otto, like Nicolson, remained standing. A latecomer appeared at the door: Detective Thomas Walker. He caught Otto’s eye, and offered no glimmer of recognition, though they had shared the Daylesford posting for six months prior to Otto’s leaving. He took a seat, and Nicolson began.

‘Gentlemen, I think you will all know Detective Otto Berliner, if not personally from his time here, then surely by repute. Perhaps his best work in Daylesford was solving the Tibbets murder. So, I’m sure you’ll agree that his expertise will be of great help in our task.’

Otto acknowledged the tribute with a slight nod of his head. Those seated remained unmoved.

‘So,’ Nicolson proceeded, ‘this wretched David Rose. Where the devil is he? Walker?’

‘Chees —’ was as far as Walker got, before Otto decided it was time to put his stamp on this meeting, and, he knew, deny Walker the initiative.

‘May I remind everyone that we are after a murderer, which may or may not prove to be David Rose.’

All eyes turned to the upstart with the educated diction and impeccable hair, who, with this technicality, had usurped proceedings. Nicolson twitched, and from the exchanged glances among the others, Otto knew he was on his own — territory he found both familiar and reassuring.

‘I know it may seem to be stating the obvious, but it is worth reminding ourselves that if we are preoccupied with Rose — and my reading is that there is much preoccupation with Rose — we will blind ourselves to other possible suspects. David Rose is a suspect; we should not presume his guilt or innocence.’

‘A good point, Detective Berliner,’ Nicolson conceded, ‘notwithstanding that we do have a man in custody already. But for now, the business of the day is to find and apprehend Rose, guilty or not.’ He turned to Walker. ‘Please, Detective, you were saying, where Rose was seen last?’

‘Yes, late morning of Thursday the 29th — the morning after the murder — by George Cheesbrough, at his farm, six miles north-east of here. He dismissed Rose, for being late rising that morning.’

‘I wonder why,’ Telford said with a wry smile, mirrored by Brady.

‘Maybe he was ill,’ Otto said, to make the point Telford seemed not to have grasped.

Telford scoffed. ‘He ought to have been real ill, after what he’d done.’

Here, Nicholson stepped out of the room, which encouraged Telford to speak uninhibitedly to Otto.

‘Well, do tell us, Detective Berliner. Who else could it be?’

‘Surely, Sergeant, you haven’t forgotten the man you put in the lock-up, charged with the same crime? You should be following that up; maybe Bonetti did do it.’

Telford was suddenly speechless.

‘They could have been in concert,’ Reid said.

‘It is possible,’ Otto conceded, if only to model open-mindedness.

‘As for Rose,’ Reid continued, ‘I think it reasonable to surmise that he went to Cheesbrough’s to give himself an alibi, so that when the body was discovered he could claim he was nowhere near the place.’

‘I agree,’ Brady said. ‘He could have walked into town that night and been back in his bunk at Glenlyon by one or two. Easily.’

Who was this Trooper Brady, Otto wondered, to be so certain of himself? Did he have a personal grievance with Rose? Or was he just an ambitious little tick?

‘It’s the rising late gives him away,’ Telford added, to a hear-hear from Brady.

‘Surely you have an opinion, Berliner?’ Reid said.

‘I do, Superintendent Reid. I say look at what the evidence says, not what you want it to say.’

Nicolson was back in the room as Reid pressed. ‘What I mean, Detective Berliner, is do you have an opinion as to Rose’s guilt or innocence?’

‘Yes, I do, Superintendent.’

‘Hallelujah,’ Telford muttered. Reid gestured for Otto to explain.

‘I think it is important that we apprehend and question Rose, because he may well be Margaret Stuart’s killer. But frankly, I would be surprised if he were. Or, to put it another way, I wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t.’

‘Based on what?’ Reid said.

‘Experience. And what I have read about David Rose. Of course, I could be wrong. But as the superintendent has just observed, this bloody murder has provoked great passions in this town, and it is natural for good people to want to find and punish the killer, or killers. The danger, in my view — and I am not sorry to labour the point — is that in the desperation to have justice done, objectivity is lost. When objectivity is lost, justice is never done. We decide who killed Mrs Stuart, and we look for confirmation that we are right. This is bad police work. Yes, Trooper Brady, Rose may have had time to walk from Glenlyon to Daylesford and back; this does not mean he did —’

‘But he did ask Cheesbrough’s wife whether the dog would bark at late-night intruders,’ Walker said.

‘Yes, so what is your point, Detective?’

Walker made a face to convey a small contempt for the question. ‘Well, Detective, it makes you think, doesn’t it? Rose was concerned about the dog waking its master when he returned home that night.’

‘Or else, Detective Walker, he was simply asking a question about the dog.’

‘Sir,’ Telford said, ‘with the greatest respect to the esteemed Detective Berliner, my experience as a policeman is that the best way to catch a criminal is not to sit around talking, but to get out, town to town, street to street, house to house, if necessary. The more time we take in talking, the further away Rose is. He could be in New South Wales by now.’

‘I agree,’ Brady said.

Nicolson took charge. ‘Rest assured that if Rose is in New South Wales, he will be arrested there —’

‘How long has it been since the murder?’ Otto said. ‘Two weeks? I would think that, had he so chosen, David Rose could be anywhere in Australia by now.’

Otto enjoyed that — enough to add, directing his attention to Telford, ‘So, a few minutes sitting in here talking is not so important, I think.’

‘Quite,’ Nicolson said, sparing Telford further embarrassment. The sergeant looked to the ceiling as Nicolson proceeded. ‘Now, gentlemen, I do know you feel the urgency; this murder has shocked and appalled us all, and the entire colony besides. And you are right, Sergeant, sitting in here isn’t catching a murderer —’

This, Otto thought, was the kind of nonsense that typified the incompetence of the Victorian police, and it was coming from the top. Disregard clear thinking and strategy because the men are itching to get out and feel good chasing something. Were they police, or foxhounds?

A slight, bespectacled man had appeared at the door. Otto knew who it would be. He hastened over, and was handed three sheets of paper. He thanked the man and rejoined the meeting, at a moment of the most perfect timing.

‘So, Detective Berliner,’ Nicolson said, ‘as the sergeant says, we are agreed; David Rose is merely a suspect. Now, your expertise has been called on to help with his apprehension. What do you suggest?’

‘May I say, firstly, that I am very pleased that Sergeant Telford and others are so eager to get out into the countryside to join in the search for Mr Rose. And I am eager to join him. But where shall we begin our house-to-house hunt? I shall tell you. Yesterday afternoon, before I had even left Melbourne, I made certain enquiries, via the telegraph — and here I acknowledge my associate at the Electric Telegraph Office for agreeing to accommodate me on a Sunday afternoon, for I have now, here in my hand, responses to those enquiries. And may I say how appreciative we should all be that these replies have been made so promptly, for they will greatly expedite our task.’

Otto was enjoying himself, giving this lesson in first-class detective work. He waved the first sheet aloft.

‘This reply tells us that David Rose passed through Daylesford at around four o’clock on the afternoon of December 29th —’

‘Who says?’ Reid said.

‘Sir, good detective work depends on information, and accordingly I make it my business to cultivate mutually trusting relationships with certain reliable persons in the community. You would understand, I’m sure, why I would not breach a confidence.’

Reid seemed a little put out. Otto held up a second sheet.

‘This attests to David Rose being camped at Blanket Flat that same night, and that the next morning he left to seek work, so he is meant to have said, around Mount Prospect.’

Otto stepped forward to the table and the map thereon. ‘Therefore, I suggest, Sir, that we confine our search between this side of Creswick and Smeaton.’

Nicolson nodded. ‘Fine work, Berliner, and I agree.’

Otto acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He pocketed the telegraph replies. The third, he hadn’t read out — for now, in his judgement, was not the right time.

Nicolson assigned officers in pairs to roads to be searched within the designated area, and by ten-thirty the men had mounted and were riding west down Albert Street. Bystanders watched the procession; some clapped and offered words of encouragement. In the public’s mind, these men were off to bring in the murderer.

Otto was with Detective Williams, a man whose silence that morning he’d noted. Such men, Otto usually liked; they thought before they spoke, and said nothing if they had nothing to say. To Otto, equability was a fine quality in a detective, and Williams, with his calm manner and thoughtful countenance, seemed to have it. The greying temples inspired confidence in Otto that this was a man of experience and judgement, a man he could rely on. And this assessment was only reinforced when Williams suggested to Otto that he ought to see the murder scene. It showed respect and courtesy, and more; it demonstrated a commitment to the detecting profession, for every crime scene is an opportunity to learn and improve.

‘The husband hasn’t stayed here since the night it happened,’ Williams said, dismounting and hitching his horse to a fence railing. ‘Who can be surprised? A house is not just a house once you know murder has gone on.’

Otto looked up the short rise to the humblest of domiciles. A shed it was, practically, sitting there among the tree stumps. With a window either side of the door, it seemed to be looking back at him, like a dumb animal, or as if to say Nothing ever happened here that is of any import. Indeed, it was like so many other worker’s residences of the town, with their simple façades masking God knows what complicated lives within.

They walked over the rough ground to the front door. Williams pushed it open and led the way in.

‘The vultures have been,’ he said, ‘and taken all the clothing, the crockery. There was even a crinoline in the bedroom. To think, some witch is wearing that beneath her skirts, bloodstained and all.’ He shook his head. ‘No shame.’

Otto ran his practised eye over the walls and floor.

‘There was a meat safe here,’ Williams said, standing in the spot. ‘Walker first saw the pipe on top of it.’

‘What pipe?’

‘The pipe he thought belonged to George Stuart. It turns out Stuart had never seen it before.’

‘So it’s a vital piece of evidence.’

‘Yes. I came here on the fourth and took possession of it.’

‘The same pipe, was it, sitting here on the meat safe, unattended for a week?’

‘Walker said it was the same pipe.’

‘Of course. And where is it now?’

‘I gave it to Detective Walker.’

Williams was unsettled by his colleague’s tone. But Otto was now examining the whitewashed walls of the fireplace.

‘These are supposed to be the marks of the corded trousers, I presume?’

Williams came over to see.

‘I suppose. I can’t be sure.’

‘And there would have been soot all over the floor, a man having come down the chimney.’ Otto bent to brush his fingertips over the boards. He examined them. ‘No sign of any now. It’s all a bit late, of course.’ A feeling of some despair was taking hold in Otto’s chest as his suspicion grew that this investigation was not being conducted with the standards of diligence the crime warranted — the standards that he lived by. God knew what detail had been overlooked, misread, misconstrued, contaminated. For the likes of Walker and Telford, as long as they had something to chase, they could tell themselves they were making progress. But this Williams fellow seemed to know what he was doing. Yes, Otto reminded himself, he did have a tendency to take personal responsibility for everything. This wasn’t his case; he was in Daylesford for a specific task, and by the day’s end he might well have completed it. He couldn’t and shouldn’t try covering for the inadequacies of his colleagues. That way, crushing disappointment lay.

He walked through into the bedroom. The bed stood stripped and askew.

‘These boards were pulled up?’

‘Walker did, I believe, looking for a knife. No luck.’

‘They drained the cess pit?’

‘There is none; the Stuarts used an old shaft a hundred yards off. I haven’t heard that it’s been searched.’

Murder’s not important enough to get covered in shit for, Otto thought to say, but held his tongue. He saw the rent in the wallpaper at the head of the bed. A frenzied assault it must have been, for such a wild stab —

Williams came in. ‘Gives you a chill, doesn’t it?’

Otto looked at his colleague. ‘I think you’re probably a good detective, Williams, but some advice: eliminate the subjective. It’ll make you see things that aren’t there, and overlook things that are. It will lead you to false conclusions. It may well give you a chill to be in a room where a young woman met a violent and bloody death, but you’re a detective, not a poet.’

Williams nodded, but Otto saw only puzzlement in his colleague’s eyes.

‘We should go, Williams. I’ve seen enough.’