16

10.00 A.M. TUESDAY 10th JANUARY

DAYLESFORD COURT HOUSE

DAVID ROSE STOOD IN the dock under the gaze of a crowd that had come to see a killer. Those not early enough to have made the opening-time dash for gallery seats remained outside, jostling and craning to watch the prisoner being escorted the fifty yards from the lock-up. They stared, as if at a fantastic ape captured from the wilds. But what they saw was a man: stout and thickset, with long and dense black hair and beard. His moustache was strangely formed of two patches either side of his shaved top lip, from which two teeth protruded just a little. He wore a coat of a dark imitation sealskin, with brown-braid binding, duck trousers, a belt with a large brass buckle, and a billycock-hat with ventilators. He walked round-shouldered in heavy, lace-up shoes. He was agitated, looking around him, this way and that, as he was still when Magistrate Drummond called order for proceedings to get underway.

Superintendent Reid rose to inform the court that the prisoner had been apprehended the day before, on Monday the 9th, and asked for a remand of seven days.

‘The arrest was made by Trooper Henry Brady?’

‘Yes, Your Worship.’

Drummond directed Brady to stand and give an account of the arrest.

Otto Berliner watched the young constable rise with a triumphal swagger. He was proud, all right, but what had he done other than follow orders arising out of timely telegrams? The gallery wouldn’t know this, of course, nor much care, probably. To them, the capture of the murderous Rose was largely due to the resourcefulness and persistence of this fine, brave young policeman. Action was something the layman could understand and applaud; the subtle strategy behind it was never so appreciated. It was a disheartening reality that made Otto only too glad to be leaving for Melbourne on the four o’clock coach.

‘I arrested the prisoner at about two o’clock yesterday afternoon in the neighbourhood of Kingston, sixteen or eighteen miles from here.’

So, Otto thought, no mention of his partner, Wilkinson. It spoke to character whether or not a man acknowledged his partners, Otto believed.

‘You’ve been in pursuit of the prisoner since when?’ Stanbridge asked.

‘Since December 29th, Your Worship.’

That would be nearly two weeks, then, Otto calculated. And how long after the arrival of Detective Berliner did you apprehend Mr Rose? he thought the magistrate might ask, though he could work that out for himself. Otto reckoned twelve hours, maybe even eleven. But Brady was now describing the arrest, and, in Otto’s opinion, in rather more detail than was necessary.

‘The place was a mile or three miles off the road, about a mile south of Hepburn’s lagoon, in a paddock full of scrub. He was sitting on a log, though he removed from that whilst I was crossing a creek. When I got up to him, I jumped off my horse and caught hold of him. I passed my hand round his throat.’ Brady here demonstrated the hold on himself. ‘I said, “I have been looking a long time for you.” I said, “I arrest you on a charge of murdering Mrs Stuart, of Daylesford.” I told him not to say anything that would be brought against him.’

‘And how did the prisoner respond?’

‘He seemed astonished at the charge. He said, “Do I look like a murderer?”’

Otto looked at Rose. What does the prisoner think a murderer might look like, he wondered? No one in the gallery would have had any doubt. Yes, the man in the dock looked like a murderer: unkempt, unrefined, brutish, not one of them. They would be blind to the childlike incomprehension in his face, the sheer incomprehension that he should find himself standing there.

Brady continued ‘… he had a large swag with him. Inside I found a butcher’s knife and a razor. I remarked that there was a stain on the razor, and he said it had got wet in the swag. I found the following things in his swag: some bedding, a tent, a quantity of tattered garments, trousers, shirt, a frying pan, a billy can, three pipes, and £5 7s. 6d. in cash, including a five-pound note.’

‘And on his person?’

‘In his pocket he had a pocket knife and another pipe.’

‘And he admitted that he was the man who lived in the tent near the deceased woman’s cottage?’

‘He did, Your Worship. And that he had spoken to her.’

Drummond indicated to Brady to stand down. ‘Remand is granted for seven days. Return the prisoner to the cell.’

Otto Berliner watched Rose, and saw a man at the edge of his very limited wits, unable even to ask a question that might bring him some degree of understanding of how he had come to be in such a predicament. Except perhaps that he had found himself in such predicaments throughout his life. He was an ex-convict, after all, as the reply to the third telegram had confirmed, transported to Van Diemen’s Land at sixteen for house-breaking. But this was murder, and the punishment was to be sent on a journey a good deal shorter: a drop at the end of a rope. Otto had sympathy for the fellow. Murderer or not, no evidence had been presented; he’d just pitched a tent near the deceased’s home, and had spoken to her shortly before her demise. Remand was simply at the convenience of the police, to keep the man handy while evidence could be gathered. But if smiles and laughter were an indication, this was good enough for the gallery. Its tiered rows of citizens were filing out now, certain that Daylesford was a safer town with David Rose locked away. Had everyone forgotten about Serafino Bonetti?

Otto stood. It was approaching noon, and lunch presented as the best idea. Across the room he saw Drummond still seated at the bench, and talking with Nicolson and a familiar face of old acquaintance: that carunculated relic, Pearson Thompson. My God, Otto thought, he’s still got a shingle out. He wondered whether he should go over and shake hands with his old adversary. The man had been gentleman enough to congratulate him on the guilty verdict for the Tibbets murder, after all. Thompson had put up a reasonably stiff defence for his client, but really, his strong suit was drunken prostitutes and petty thieves, for whom over the years he had spared much time behind bars. It was too late for handshakes now, anyway; Nicolson had joined them, and all three promptly repaired to the magistrate’s room, whereupon the door was shut behind them.

THE ALBERT HOTEL ACROSS the street had been a favourite lunch venue of Otto’s on the occasions when he appeared in court. It was also a regular haunt of Pearson Thompson’s, so Otto’s decision to dine there this day wasn’t entirely without design. He ordered corned beef and salad, and found a table by a window overlooking the Court House. He didn’t see Thompson emerge from his meeting, but the man was true to his habits anyway, and came in.

The dining area was too small for patrons to escape the notice of their fellows, and the detective and lawyer nodded to each other in mutual recognition. Otto stayed busy with his food; Thompson, with a waitress. He was chatting easily with her, encouraged by her coquettish looks and chuckles. As was the barrister’s predilection, she was young, and with the kind of innocent muliebrity to which vain men of mature years readily fall captive. They finished their intercourse with what looked like Thompson’s relating of an amusing anecdote before she disappeared through to the kitchen, and he looked about for a free table. Catching his eye, Otto invited him to his. Thompson came over.

‘Berliner,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘Thompson.’ They shook, Thompson as limp-wristed as Otto remembered.

Thompson sat and smoothed his moustache with a parting of thumb and forefinger.

‘I didn’t expect to see you up here. I thought you were going private?’

‘I am, but until the office opens I remain a public servant.’

‘Well, old man, public or private, Nicolson tells me your sleuthing came through.’

Otto affected not to be appreciative of the compliment, lest it appear he was surprised by it.

‘Not that it did my client any good,’ Thompson added.

The purpose of the meeting with the magistrate and superintendent was now clear to Otto.

‘Drummond turned your application down?’

‘Only because Nicolson objected to it.’

‘This is no surprise.’

‘No, Nicolson wants to keep both suspects detained because he has nothing but circumstantial evidence against Rose, and Bonetti has not explained himself — neither his whereabouts on the night, nor the blood on his clothing, though he did say it was sheep’s blood. But how can anyone tell?’

‘Bonetti has no alibi?’

‘He has, but won’t say. The man’s a fool.’

‘A married woman, then.’

‘Of course. And no, Bonetti does not want her to come forward.’

‘Once more, this is no surprise; her husband will be embarrassed, and she will be disgraced and without means.’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Does Sergeant Telford know what his wife’s been doing?’

‘Good God! How do you know — ?’

‘Bonetti built the new extension to Telford’s quarters at the Police Camp, and it is not unknown that very red blood flows through Mrs Telford’s veins. So it seems to me the man had what I call motive and opportunity. And, by the way, I didn’t know — until you just confirmed it.’

Thompson seemed impressed, if not irritated. ‘Well, I didn’t actually tell you.’ His sausage and mash was set down by the woman he’d been speaking to earlier. He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, with a light touch on her forearm. She smiled and left.

‘Lola,’ Thompson said, leaving it for Otto to interpret in whichever direction he chose. He loaded his fork. ‘With Rose remanded, Bonetti was assuming he’d be a free man. And I think it’s a reasonable assumption; they can’t both be guilty. It’s an indictment of police competence and an affront to justice. But I’m wasting my breath telling you.’ Thompson’s mood had soured. Otto resented the implication; he had his own differences with his colleagues, but he wasn’t about to sympathise with a defence counsel’s beef. He watched Thompson chew, reload his fork, and then point it at him as he spoke.

‘Bonetti’s innocent, Berliner. That’s undeniable. The irony is, I think I want him released more than he does!’

‘So you can represent Rose, I take it.’

Thompson paused his eating.

‘I really hadn’t thought of that. It has some appeal to a man at the twilight of a long career. Straightforward, undemanding —’

‘Payment government-guaranteed.’

‘No expectation of victory.’

‘You think Rose is guilty?’

Thompson chuckled. He shrugged.

‘Let’s say that if he hangs, no one’s going to be surprised, or grieved!’

‘What shall you do about Bonetti?’

Thompson smiled. ‘Goodness me, Berliner, I thought that would have been obvious. I shall have a little chat with Mrs Telford, of course.’

WITH AN HOUR AND a half to while away before the coach, Otto thought to take himself on a walk through town, to see who was about — in particular, a fellow who had arrived in Daylesford well after he himself had left, and whose involvement in the murder investigation was to Otto as fascinating as it was revolutionary. At the bottom of Albert Street, in Burke Square, just past Doctor Doolittle’s consulting rooms and Tognini’s Hotel, Otto found the man’s premises: The London Portrait Gallery. He entered to a tinkling of a bell and a warm greeting from the proprietor. On first impression, he was a man of disarming manner.

‘Good afternoon, Sir. Thomas Chuck,’ he said, and offered his hand.

Otto accepted it and they shook. ‘Otto Berliner,’ he said.

‘Detective Otto Berliner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I had heard one of Daylesford’s finest was returning,’ the photographer said.

‘Only for a day, Mr Chuck.’

‘And it proved that a day was all that was required.’

Otto smiled. How gratifying it was to hear that one’s abilities were appreciated, admired even.

‘I saw your photographs, Mr Chuck. Who would have thought that Daylesford, of all places, would be at the forefront of crime photography? An exciting future, I think.’

‘Maybe, but I think I shall keep to landscapes and portraits.’

‘No challenge when your subject keeps so still, I suppose.’

Chuck forced a faint smile, and Otto was immediately appalled at his making light. He hastened to atone.

‘Tell me, Mr Chuck, you took two photographs?’

‘I was asked to take two.’

‘By whom?’

‘Detective Walker. He wanted one of the deceased on her bed, and one of the locality.’

‘Well, you’re clearly a master of the craft.’

‘Thank you. I wonder, though, Detective, how much use they are.’

‘To which side: prosecution or defence?’

‘To the side of justice.’

The answer took Otto by surprise, and agreeably so. Here was a fellow he could grow to like very much.

‘Quite right. Anyway, I’m no longer part of the investigation; it’s back to Melbourne for me now. I plan to leave the police department this year, to begin my own practice.’

‘In that case, may I ask what you think of David Rose?’

Otto thought a moment. A glib reply would be an insult to this man of manifest compassion and integrity. ‘I think only that he’s a man, and a man no less deserving of justice than any other.’

‘And you think he will get justice?’

‘It pains me to say, Mr Chuck, that from what I’ve seen so far, I don’t know. It was a horrible crime, and people want to unleash their anger over it. It would be easy to believe that whoever killed Mrs Stuart is a creature not like the rest of us.’

In the softening of his face, Chuck conveyed his acknowledgement of the honesty of the observation. And then he hung his head.

‘I’m sorry. That scene at Stuart’s. It was … the smell, the flies. So many flies. I’ll never forget it.’

‘No. Dreadful.’

‘I keep imagining that poor woman’s last thoughts.’ He pressed fingertips into his forehead and made his scalp white. He looked up, and Otto saw that his eyes had reddened. ‘I saw David Rose yesterday, when he was brought in. I had to go, to see for myself what kind of a man would do that to a beautiful young woman. I shouldn’t have gone. It was horrifying, shameful, to be one of the mob.’

‘Rose might well be the murderer, Mr Chuck. People are angry.’

‘Yes, but do they want revenge more than they want justice?’

The two men were silent in a moment of mutual understanding. The tension in Chuck’s face eased.

‘I’m glad to have met you, Detective Berliner.’

Otto smiled and turned for the door, and then thought of something. ‘If you were so inclined to share your thoughts further, you might write to me. Or if ever you’re in Melbourne, we may meet over lunch perhaps. I’d be delighted to learn more about photography. It would seem to have great application in my profession. You do come to Melbourne?’

‘On occasion. And thank you, Detective Berliner, I shall certainly write.’

‘Please, it’s Otto.’

‘Tom.’

THE FORESTS TO THE east of Daylesford flashed by in shadows and shafts of light. A crowded coach of ten passengers it was for the return journey to Malmsbury, and on a trying road Otto was glad of a window seat for the support the chassis afforded. He had expected also to be glad to be heading home; instead, he was troubled. Why had he accepted Nicolson’s request, he wondered? He had nothing to prove; his record of achievement was already legendary: the Tibbets and La Franchi murders, the forgeries, the burglaries … so many crimes, so many plaudits in the press, and official reports for ‘skill and zeal’ in bringing perpetrators to book. That Nicolson made the request ought to have been ample affirmation. What need was there to demonstrate to former colleagues his prowess yet again? None, of course, and now he was left with an uneasiness that he been compromised. Yes, thanks to him, a man had been apprehended, but Otto had simply been a bloodhound, brought in to sniff out a suspect and then to be sent home to his kennel. This wasn’t how a good detective worked! It certainly wasn’t how he worked. Alas, he despaired that his colleagues, however inept, did not share his assiduity, nor even subscribe to it.

What evidence was there against this David Rose? Against Serafino Bonetti? What evidence had been missed, contaminated, destroyed? What other suspects had been overlooked? What investigations were underway? It was an indictment of his fellows that he should have so little confidence in their abilities — but worse, he feared, an indictment of himself that he would suspend his standards for cheap vanity.

On the upside of the ledger, and there usually was an upside if he cared to look for one, was making the acquaintance of Tom Chuck. Yes, Otto thought, it had been a brief meeting, but he was sure he’d met a man of like mind there, a man of integrity, a man he could trust.