24

TUESDAY 15th AUGUST

DAVID ROSE SAT IN a corner of the exercise yard at Castlemaine Gaol, lobbing stones at a weed. Archdeacon Archibald Crawford approached, and stopped at the prisoner’s feet. He lowered himself to his haunches and balanced there, forearms on thighs.

‘Good morning, David. How are you today?’

Rose looked up. ‘Is it in?’

Crawford pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket. He nodded and handed it over. ‘Yes. Your letter’s there.’ Rose scanned the print. He recognised his name and various other words he’d said, taken down by Crawford the day before. He got to his feet.

‘I’ve thought of more,’ he said.

Crawford was reluctant. He stood. ‘David, you have given an account of yourself, and the newspaper was good enough to publish it. I don’t think they will want more. In any case, writing more will only …’

‘Will only what?’

‘Will only make people wonder why you didn’t say all of this at the trial. They will think you have been making things up.’

‘I’m not making things up!’ Rose’s voice was loud; Crawford looked about and held up his hands for calm.

‘David, please.’

Rose turned away, and pressed his forehead against the sandstone wall. Crawford came up by his shoulder and placed a hand on it.

‘David, many people will read your letter. But now I implore you — I beg you — please, you must prepare for the hereafter —’

Rose turned. His face was hard, his eyes wide and restless. Crawford shrunk back.

‘Why, padre? There is no day named for hanging.’

‘No, but it will come.’

‘No! I want to say more. I want them to know the lies of Michael Wolf.’

Crawford looked into the eyes of a desperate, deluded man. He weighed the situation, and relented.

‘Very well, David. I will take another letter today, but it will be the last. So mind you take care to say all you wish to say.’

78 ELIZABETH STREET, MELBOURNE

OTTO BERLINER RETURNED HOME, feeling more than a little self-congratulatory. In fact, given how pleased he was with his progress in Auckland, he made a mental note that some humility ought to attend any reporting of developments, lest he be seen as smug. Still, there was no denying he’d been well received across the Tasman Sea, and this could only encourage the view among potential clients that the service he would be offering had broad appeal and imprimatur. There could be no doubt that he had made the right decision, that his Private Inquiry Office should not solely be a Melbourne — or Victorian — enterprise; it should have, right from its inception, agencies far and wide. A branch office would open in Sydney within months, and soon thereafter, agencies in all Australian colonies, and New Zealand of course. In time, he had no doubt, connections would be made in the largest cities of the world. Even sooner, though, would be his retirement from the Detective Department. That day was fast approaching, as the demands of establishing a fledgling business were growing.

Right now though, he was in the mood for celebrating, but not in the fashionable way. For Otto, celebration meant sitting and reading or taking a bath. He might go out for coffee and cake, or take a walk through the Botanic Gardens, or see a play. To Otto, there was no greater reward than the freedom to enjoy solitary pursuits. Nonetheless, even this didn’t come simply to him; it was always easier to get back to work, to tell himself he hadn’t quite done enough to earn his treat. He was sure he cherished his visits to Linden’s Gentlemen’s Salon in large part because he had no choice but to submit to the pleasure of the enforced hiatus in the barber’s chair.

Some time after three, Otto entered his rooms on the first floor to find that the mail box which hung on the inside of the door was full. Among various items of official correspondence was a letter from his sister, Helga, and another from Tom Chuck. Otto hadn’t forgotten the David Rose case; word of the verdict had reached him in New Zealand. As for the details, it was to be his recreation to catch up on newspaper reports just as soon as he was settled at home. But now these letters, of course, took precedence.

First, his sister. Helga was his junior by a year, and lived in Sydney, as she had since the family came out in 1848. She was widowed, and a homebody who, in Otto’s opinion, seemed to have redirected her frustrated wifely instincts to the care of their frail mother, and thank heaven for it, because that would be no easy assignment. Sending money each month was Otto’s side of the contract, and he never once failed to honour it. This made it all the more irritating to him that Helga should still be soliciting — however subtly — his return to Sydney. ‘Mother misses you,’ was a regular example, and there it was again, an unnecessary remark in a letter of otherwise welcome news and gossip. Perhaps, though, he was being too harsh; once the office was up and running, and the Sydney branch open, it would be a good time to pay a visit. He put Helga’s letter aside and opened Chuck’s, which had arrived almost a month ago. It was brief, no more than a paragraph, which made finding out the subject of it all the more tantalising.

July 28th 1865

Dear Otto,

I have this very minute come from court to my hotel room in Castlemaine. If you are returned from New Zealand I expect you will have learned of the probable fate of David Rose and if so, you may be assuming that evidence was forthcoming that precluded any verdict other than guilty. However, in all good conscience, and despite my ignorance in court matters, I am deeply troubled that an innocent man may be sent to his death. I take some courage that I am not alone in my view. Some comment in the press has pointed to inadequacies in the prosecution’s case. That said, I feel that I should very much like to share my concerns with you.

Tom

Otto walked to his window. Rain was herding Elizabeth Street pedestrians to the shelter of verandas, leaving the roadway to horses and carriages, and to caped drivers perched glumly on their seats. In a matter of days, surely, David Rose would be dead. Otto remembered reading the grim news of the guilty verdict and casually assuming, as Tom’s letter suggested he would, that evidence must have been presented which put the matter beyond doubt. It was the easiest, most convenient conclusion. But now, this letter. Tom Chuck was no fool. If Tom had misgivings, they wouldn’t be baseless. Could it really be that a pipe had condemned Rose? Otto recalled mention of the police finding a shirt —

He glanced up at the clock. Four p.m. It was too late now, but yes, tomorrow he would go to Daylesford. This matter, he decided, simply could not be ignored, not for another day; the execution order from the governor could not be far off. Of course, he gave himself a mild rebuke for thinking it, but an opportunity was not to be missed to demonstrate the superior detective skills his private inquiry office would bring to bear, should he be successful in saving Rose from the gallows. And yet there was another reason — one that was suddenly barking on the periphery of his thinking, like a dog at a fence. He wanted to ignore it, but it was real: a feeling of guilt and perhaps worse, of self-doubt, that it was he who had brought in the wrong man.

WEDNESDAY 16th AUGUST

DAVID ROSE SNATCHED THE newspaper as soon as Crawford entered the cell.

‘It’s in here?’

‘Yes, David. They published your letter. Your second letter in two days. I was surprised they —’ Crawford checked himself, but Rose’s attention was with the page, scanning the print for familiar words. He let out a chuckle and began to pant, excited, as if the printed word leant his words an authority that could not be denied. He looked up from the page, listening for an angry populace at the gates demanding his release. He turned a demanding gaze on Crawford.

‘It’s all here, as I spoke it?’

‘Every word. David —’

‘That I heard about the murder when I was at Blanket Flat, that I never told Michael Wolf that a razor cut the woman’s throat, that I didn’t say that was the price of her?’

‘Yes, David. Everything you told me.’ Everything your counsel should have made clear at the trial but didn’t, he thought to say.

Rose settled. He nodded. With a deep breath and a swallow, he brought his breathing down. He seemed satisfied, at last. Crawford was relieved, for he had grave news. He seized his chance to break it.

‘David, please, can you look at me?’ Rose obliged, and Crawford sensed that the man had more than an inkling of what he was about to be told. However slightly, it eased the burden. He could not have been more mistaken. ‘David, it falls to me, this solemn duty, to tell you that Governor Darling yesterday signed your death warrant —’

‘No! No! No!’ The news set Rose alight with rage. He hammered his fists against the wall and bawled to the ceiling. Crawford decided to press on; there was no imparting this gently, for Rose or for himself. ‘You are to be hanged next Monday morning, the 21st of August, at ten o’clock. David, I am deeply sorry to bring you such word. I do entreat you to calm yourself.’ This was a forlorn hope. David Rose was in a world of demons: distressed, outraged, unreachable.

‘They cannot fucking hang me! I want to see the governor! I fucking will see the governor!’

‘Come, David, let us pray together.’ Crawford held out a hand and ventured towards the condemned man. Rose snarled and turned away.

‘David, let us pray to God to give you strength, so that you may come to Him with your conscience unburdened.’

Rose was tearing at his hair and beard. He screeched. The flap opened; Crawford waved the turnkey away.

‘I implore you, David. Your letters have spoken to the people. Now is the time to speak to God. Let his everlasting love comfort you and bring you strength … Please, David, let us pray together.’

Rose stopped his pacing. For the moment, he was composed. ‘There is no need to pray. Don’t you see?’ He held up the newspaper. ‘God has already answered.’

OTTO ALIGHTED FROM THE coach in front of Jamison’s Hotel in Wills Square at 5.00 p.m. ‘My God, this weather!’ he muttered as he was reminded of how miserable a Daylesford winter’s day could be. And it wasn’t just the bite of the windblown mist, or the murky air, that affronted him: there was the mud, too. The rich volcanic soil that summer winds whipped up in eddies of red dust had been transformed by winter’s heavy rain to a wet plaster that bespattered hems and horses, and caked the undersides of vehicles. It so clumped to itself, and to anything that might come in contact with it, that crossing the street turned a man’s shoes into clods.

Fortunately, Otto had no need to venture from the kerb — not for now, at least — for he would be staying at the Albert Hotel, on this side of the road. This did, however, necessitate a walk of two hundred yards through the rain along a densely puddled footpath. He drew his scarf up across his face and set out for what he expected would be a warm room, a hot meal, and, after reading the newspaper reports he had brought with him, a sound sleep. Tomorrow, there was much to be done.