18

Sleeping in one of the cramped and stinking rooms at the Royal felt like punishment enough, and worry made for fitful sleep. Plenty of lucky souls don’t remember their dreams but I do. Dreams and memories, and sometimes I don’t know which is which. The dreams are so lucid they follow me all day, and I have to question my recall and remind myself that it didn’t happen like that. Tossing and turning in a strange bed, mind racing and a muscle twitch just below my left eye. I lit a candle, checked the eye in the mirror hanging above the washstand. Couldn’t see the twitching muscle but I felt it. Soon my hand would begin, almost in unison.

At school, if a master thrashed you with the cane, you bore it in silence, no matter how brutal. If you were beasted in the army, you bore it in silence. If you were lying in a tent on the veldt dying of typhoid, you did not cry out. To cry out was to be unmanned, because a man did not scream or lose control, nor did he apologise, explain himself or mistreat an inferior. Mastery of the self, at all times – for how could he rule over those below him if he could not rule himself?

I could manage by day. But at night the fear ran amok and I cried out, beginning each day with shame.

I opened the window to the sounds of the night, the frogs and crickets, sat on the bed trying to get a breath. The uniform, the station, the routines and duties – all of them contained me, and without those bindings I could feel myself disintegrating. I couldn’t stay here and couldn’t leave. Or I could – resignation offered a way out. Resign under a cloud and it would follow me for life. But this? Night after never-ending night?

~

At dawn I went down to the river, waded in and stood there watching the water as it slid around me, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke and frying bacon, my feet sinking into the mud. I heard a man call my name, turned and saw Henry Peyton, the overseer of Gowrie Station, heading towards the police station.

‘Hawkins, I need to speak with ye.’

‘I am suspended from duty and Mick Lonergan is in charge,’ I said as I waded out.

‘He’s nowt but a stripling,’ he said, a horrified look on his face.

‘That’s how it is. For now. Let’s go and see him.’ I wrapped a towel around my waist and he looked askance at me, barefoot, gingerly walking over the stony dirt.

Lonergan was bleary and buttoning his shirt as he stumbled into the station. ‘Mr Peyton, can I help you?’ He stared at me, blinking. I was half-naked, beard dripping water, the pulse under my eye almost frantic.

‘One of my men, Archie Beavins, is missing. Gave no notice and didn’t claim his wages. Men won’t say why, or they don’t know why. But a man works hard and then forgets to collect his pay?’

‘He came in looking for me while I was away,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s come off his horse somewhere? Have you had a look around?’

‘Didn’t take his horse, and we can’t spare men to go looking for the eejit, but you can, you and Wilson Garnet, or he can,’ he said, nodding at Lonergan.

‘All right, we’ll get onto it today. Where’s he most likely to have gone?’

‘Chasing lassies, more than likely, and outstaying his welcome.’

‘When was he last seen?’

‘Wednesday. He didn’t turn up for supper, wasn’t at work on Thursday. So I’m ringing the alarm today.’

He nodded and left. Lonergan looked at me.

‘You can manage this,’ I said. ‘Hunting for a missing bloke’s a doddle. Wilson or Frosty know what to do.’

‘Yeah, but just say I saw you and asked for help? Who’s gunna know?’

Beavins was a nasty sort and could rot out there, as far as I was concerned. But Dancer needed a workout, and I needed something to do.

~

Mrs Schreiber was frying mutton chops in the kitchen, her sturdy bulk reassuring. She turned to look at me when I emerged from my room dressed in civilian clothes.

‘Why do they make you leave your home, Herr Kapitän?’ she asked.

‘Oh, just a silly misunderstanding,’ I said. ‘I’ll still eat here.’

She shook her head. ‘Always the police are doing stupid things.’

‘I hope you don’t include me in that assessment.’

She smiled, her plump face lighting up. ‘Oh, you do the drinking too much.’

‘I shall cut back then,’ I said, and sat down as she dished up a breakfast of mutton chops, grilled tomatoes and eggs. Afterwards, Lonergan and I got out the maps and studied the area around Gowrie, looking for smallholdings within walking distance of the station. How far would a man walk for sex? Depended on how much he’d been drinking – and he’d probably walk a lot further for love. We saddled up and rode off towards Gowrie with a half-formed plan as to where to look.

~

On the way to Gowrie we stopped to pick up Wilson. The usual mob of kids and dogs greeted us, laughing and kicking up dust. Wilson wasn’t around, so we left a message for Frosty to meet us at Gowrie Station and headed there, riding two abreast through the cool morning air over the sparse plain.

We stopped on a low rise and looked out. Nobody and nothing for miles. A rabbit broke cover and ran in front of us. Lonergan whipped his rifle out and shot it within seconds, then we plodded on in silence.

We rode past several lambing paddocks, the tiny creatures staggering around in their new world, hawks and eagles circling above, foxes and wild dogs watching, waiting. At night the stockmen went around every few hours with lanterns, checking and rechecking the ewes, giving a hand if needed. Lambing could be a bloody business; sometimes neither ewe nor lamb survived.

First place to look was Beavins’ bunk and trunk. Station hands lived cheek by jowl in quarters two to a room. Places like Gowrie, Tindaree and Inveraray had about twenty or so men in the living quarters. Beavins had shared with Pearson, but Pearson’s belongings had been cleared out and sent off to his next of kin.

We searched the contents of Beavins’ trunk, which had been stored under his bed. A change of clothes, another pair of boots, a winter jacket and hat, a crucifix on a gold chain and some coins. Beavins’ bunk stank of unwashed feet and stale tobacco. While Lonergan watched, I felt around gingerly under the greasy pillow and then lifted the mattress and felt around between the bed board and the mattress and pulled out a brown paper bag.

I peered inside and found a wad of ten-pound notes, of all things. Didn’t he know about banks? Peyton would have banked his wages for him if he’d asked. That was much safer than keeping cash under your bunk in the stockmen’s quarters.

I counted a hundred pounds. He’d saved that much on a stockman’s wages? He wouldn’t have left such a sum behind if he’d run off. I tossed it in the trunk and carried the trunk over to the house and asked somebody to lock it up for me.

Before we left, I asked the housekeeper if I could speak to Miss Sally Gilmour. The housekeeper was Miss Fletcher, Will Fletcher’s spinster sister, who’d grown up on Gowrie and run the homestead since Mrs Fletcher became an invalid. She was as tall as her nephew and brother, grey-haired with a matter-of-fact manner, dressed in serge and her hair tightly bound.

‘I’ll see if she has a moment. This is official business?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded. ‘You can speak to her on the verandah. I’ll get her now.’

A few minutes later Sally Gilmour appeared, and what a vision she was. No wonder Jimmy Kirkbride had his tongue halfway down her throat. Buxom, with lips so plump and moist it was a shame to leave them unkissed. I suspect she was used to my reaction, for she looked at me like I was dirt on her shoe.

‘Constable, I am very busy. What is it you want?’

‘Mr Archie Beavins has gone missing. Did you know him well?’

Taken aback, she frowned. ‘What makes you think I know him, of all people?’

‘He mentioned you during an interview – he said you and James Kirkbride had been friendly at the coronation dance in Larne and he didn’t like it.’

Sally Gilmour snorted. ‘None of his business, or yours for that matter. But yes, I was friendly with Jimmy. No law against it.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’ve spoken to those detectives already, told ’em what I saw, which wasn’t much.’

‘Do you know where Archie Beavins might have gone?’

‘You seem to think he’s a friend of mine. He’s not. Ask Mr Peyton about him. Now, I have to get back to Mrs Fletcher.’

~

Frosty was waiting for us and we set off on the search for Beavins. The three of us roamed around on foot that day, circling Gowrie, following one trail then another, while flies buzzed and the day got warmer. The scrub down this way had been overgrazed, and it wouldn’t have been too hard to find a man if he was out here. Would have been easier on horseback to see further. We came up with nothing by the time sunset rolled around and gave it up for the day. But I made Lonergan walk beside Frosty and pay attention to how he was reading the small signs and how to look for them, which was useful.

‘We’ll push the circle further out tomorrow,’ I said, showing Frosty and Lonergan the map.

~

I rode back to town with Lonergan, mulling over the disappearance of Beavins. He was either dead or injured. Unless he’d walked into Calpa and taken a steamer down to Wilcannia. There was no other way out of the district.

Men disappeared out here, and we stumbled on their bones years later. Sometimes you could tell from the clothes how recently the person died; other times the bones could be a thousand years old and we just wouldn’t know. Coming to speak to me was interesting. If he wanted to renew a firearms licence Lonergan could have fixed that, but it was me he wanted to see. Not many blokes around here sought me out for my charming smile.

As if he was following my thoughts, Lonergan said, ‘It’s that money that gets me thinking. I’ve never seen that much in my life, and I reckon few blokes out here would have either, and he’s got it stuck under his mattress?’

‘Maybe he’s had no time to go to town to bank it.’

‘He came looking for you, remember?’ Lonergan replied. ‘When you went on leave. Could have banked it then.’

‘Or he received it just before he disappeared. But whoever gave it to him would have had to make a very big withdrawal in Burke or Wilcannia. Or they’ve come in from somewhere else with the money.’

‘Nothing to buy out here,’ Lonergan said, waving flies away from his face. ‘And you couldn’t drink a hundred pounds with nobody noticing.’

‘Gambling?’

‘A hundred quid? If a man has a hundred quid to play with, he’s not going to be out in the backblocks doing it.’

‘Unless he’s a crook,’ I said. ‘And is looking to fleece the men out here. Plenty of two-up games are rigged, and lots of people underestimate these stockmen, think they can flimflam and get away with it.’

‘But no strangers seen in the district, or not that we’ve been told about.’

‘Nobody who looked like a stranger. There could well have been strangers, men who were here for no good, who dressed as a bunch of shearers.’

Lonergan sighed. ‘I couldn’t be a detective. Too many ifs and buts. I like a nice clear order. Just do it and go home for supper.’

When we arrived back at the station, Lonergan went to put the kettle on but I hauled him back, made him write up the day in the incident book while it was still fresh in his mind. I was hanging over him, correcting his grammar, and through the window saw the Jongs, perched on their old cart, rolling slowly through the town.

I stepped outside and hailed them. ‘Mr and Mrs Jong, heading back home?’

‘We are, but not to live,’ Mrs Jong said, bringing the cart to a halt. ‘But first, I’ll thank you for your help with Albert. We’re grateful to you for digging him a final resting place.’

‘Not final. I did wire Bourke for a coffin and a van to take him to Bourke. Parry should have followed that up.’

‘He got in touch with us and said Albert’s still buried on our property, and he’s sent a reminder to Bourke,’ Mrs Jong said.

‘I am sorry it ended like this.’

‘Was never going to end any other way.’

‘If you wait a moment, I’ll fetch my horse and escort you up there, show you where he’s buried.’

~

They hadn’t been back since I warned them away from the place. I hated to see the pain in Mrs Jong’s eyes when she came out of the cottage, seeing her neat little home ransacked.

‘We’ll not be staying here any longer,’ she said as she and I went through the shed, noting down what had been taken.

‘Where will you go?’

‘Back to live with Dulcie and Howie at Wilcannia. It’s a nice little town and Eddie loves the girls. Howie gets me to help with maintaining his kit, so I don’t feel like I’m a burden.’

‘What about this place?’

‘Oh, I’ll leave it to the boys,’ she said. ‘I’m too old to be selling it, and what with Albert buried here, Eddie would not be happy to see others living here.’

‘And your granddaughters – how are they getting on? You said one of them was a little unruly.’

The old woman took off her hat, rubbed her sparse hair, whisked some flies away.

‘Rosie, she’s a good girl, but people will tell you otherwise. People will say she’s wild and got the madness like her uncle, but she wouldn’t be that way if a man she trusted hadn’t interfered with her. That sort of thing does bad things to a child. It hurts them in a place that is not made for hurt but for love – that’s what makes it evil.’

‘Do you know who did it?’ I asked.

‘I do indeed, but no use telling anyone now. Howie took a whip to him, ran him out of town, but our Rosie, she’s left with the worst of it.’

‘May I ask, did it happen around here?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It’s best forgotten.’

‘A bad business, and I’m sorry, Mrs Jong.’ I shook her hand and mounted up. ‘When you’re ready, if you’d like an escort down to Wilcannia I can take you part of the way. Just tell Parry to wire me.’

‘Thank you, for all you’ve done for us.’

I stopped by Larne police station to give Parry a boot up the arse over the failure to fetch Albert Jong. This was the twentieth century – we didn’t leave men in bush graves anymore. Parry wasn’t there. I left a note, but as I was suspended, he could simply ignore it.

~

When I returned to the Calpa station I found Lonergan leaning against the kitchen sink grinning at the letter in his hand. He saw me and quickly folded the letter and tucked it in his pocket. A bowl of crimson quandongs sat on the wood chopping board waiting to be boiled down for jam. Quandongs needed a fair whack of sugar.

‘Letter from your girl?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, all blushes and shuffles.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Ada. We’re going to get married.’

‘Congratulations. She in Balranald?’

‘Near. Her parents are in wheat too, not far from my parents’ farm.’

‘Pretty?’

He lit up like the sun. ‘Yeah, real pretty.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘Her father thought it was a good idea, go and get the itchies out before settling down. He reckons the farm will be ours one day, and he wants me to be serious about it.’

‘Wise man.’

‘I miss her, but.’

Envy smeared itself across my heart. I picked up the coffee pot, opened the cannister. ‘Want a coffee?’

‘Yeah, thanks. I’ve never had coffee like yours before.’

‘Get it shipped from South Africa. The Dutch know their coffee.’ I placed the pot on the stove and took down two cups.

‘You got someone special?’ he asked.

I put the cups on the table, found the sugar, put it on the table, picked up a cloth, wiped the table. ‘Not anymore.’ A lump in my throat was building.

The coffee boiled up, drops of water escaping the seal and hitting the stovetop, hissing as they evaporated.

‘Ada called it off once,’ he said as I poured the coffee. ‘I wanted to die. Wanted to go out to the shed and bury my head in the arsenic sack.’

I nodded, sipped my coffee.

‘My mum said, “Stop moping around like a wet chook, boy, just get back out there and change her mind.”’

‘And your dad?’

‘Said, “Do what your mother tells you,” like he always does. And I got Ada back. Had to work at it but I just didn’t give up. I reckon I’m the luckiest man in Australia now.’

‘Well done.’

We didn’t keep sacks of arsenic at the station, but there was always the river.

~

Will Fletcher had asked me to come back that evening and dine with the family. Since Mrs Fletcher’s accident she dined in her rooms, and old Miss Fletcher, Will’s sister, ran the house. She kept a mean table, maybe as revenge for being asked to keep house.

Tom and Will and I had a beer on the verandah before dinner and watched the sky as it changed from orange to pink to mauve then dark blue, a sight few people tired of. Will Fletcher talked about fencing wire and Tom said nothing. I glanced at him now and again, thinking of Baines’ suspicions. Will was very protective of his son, as you’d imagine, and would lie to save him, for all his Christian principles. And if Tom was the killer, his clothes would have been covered in blood. Easily got rid of on this vast property. He was quick to anger, Baines was right about that. Maybe I was just too used to him to see what Baines could see.

Dinner was boiled mutton, boiled sprouts and mashed pumpkin, followed by suet pudding with a couple of stray raisins and a thin trickle of cocky’s joy. Tom picked at his food and stared into the middle distance much of the time. He wasn’t who he used to be, and never would be again. His massive shoulders were shrinking, all of him was. It might have been the guilt eating him. Will cast worried glances at him now and then. Once Miss Fletcher withdrew and the port and cigars came out, he encouraged me to tell old war stories, probably in the hope Tom would show some interest.

‘Tell us again about Elands River, Gus. Three thousand Boer and only a handful of colonials – what a fight it must have been.’

‘It was a battle and a siege, and there were five hundred of us, not a handful.’

‘What did that British Colonel Hore say? “I cannot surrender. I am in charge of Australians who would cut my throat if I did.” And you would have too, eh?’

Hore did say that, and Will loved this story, chuckled into his whisky each time he heard it. I was just a lad of twenty at the time of the siege, a spotty subaltern busy shitting myself and pretty keen on the idea of surrender. It was the older, tougher enlisted men who knew what they were doing, who would not consider bowing to the Boer – or anyone else, for that matter. They were men like Beavins, Pearson and the rest, men who could turn their hand to anything, drove ten thousand sheep, knock up a couple of miles of fencing, skin a kangaroo, win at two-up, hold their own in a brawl, bed the barmaid and be home in time for tea.

I excused myself and went down the hall to the indoors lavatory, and passed Sally Gilmour on the way in the dim light of the hallway. Her eyes were lowered, but just as she passed, she flicked me a glance and kept walking, leaving an indefinable female scent in the air. She let me know that she knew I was aware of her. I was more than aware of her, and for an overheated moment that drooling incubus on my left shoulder whispered, Go on, mate, she’s ripe for the plucking, and you know how you love a good pluck …

It was quite a job gathering my wits once she’d passed. I found Tom drinking port by the fire alone. Will had gone to bed.

‘How long has Miss Gilmour been with you?’ I asked, settling back into my armchair.

‘Couple of years, I reckon,’ Tom said. ‘The first nurse Mother had left as she couldn’t tolerate the climate. Mother is very attached to Miss Gilmour. She’s very good at the practical side of things and she is devoted to Mother. Had a hard life before she came here, apparently.’

‘Jimmy Kirkbride was keen on her.’

‘Jimmy was keen on all the girls,’ he said, and drained his glass of port. ‘Like his father.’

That comment hung in the air. The fire roared like a small, caged beast. Tom threw another log on it, feeding its fury.

‘Your mother and …’ I said, treading carefully. Bringing up a man’s mother’s adultery was asking for trouble.

‘Kirkbride?’ Tom said, looking daggers at me.

‘He’s going to find it hard to manage without Jimmy,’ I replied, remembering the force of Tom’s fist in my face and changing tack.

‘I reckon Kirkbride finds that hardest of all, harder than losing Nessie and Grace. No legacy, family farm passing into a stranger’s hands.’

‘It’ll be Flora’s, surely?’

Tom gave me a sharp look. ‘Flora has to marry a wool man, someone who can take over Inveraray, so at least there’ll be grandsons to inherit.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Kirkbride. Father and I went to pay our respects. Despite everything that bastard has done to our family, Father said we had to be Christian. After all, he was – is – Nessie’s father. And that’s what Kirkbride talked about. His legacy.’

‘And Janet Kirkbride? How’s she holding up?’

He shook his head, slowly. ‘Stays in her room.’

I remembered her keening, the unearthly despair.

‘I blame Jimmy for Nessie’s death. I told you that, didn’t I?’ Tom went on. ‘He had some bit of jam he wanted at the dance and dragged his sisters along with him. He was shameless, thought he could get away with it, and he did, what’s more. And now Kirkbride has given up we’ll never know.’

Tom tossed his port down and refilled his glass and mine.

‘What father in their right mind gives up on finding the killers of his children? What sort of man is Kirkbride? Talking about Flora’s marriage while Nessie is barely in her grave. He had a lot of sympathy at first, but now?’ He shook his head. ‘He’s weak, he’s pathetic, a man without honour.’

We both gazed at the fire, the flames consuming the log with glee. Tom had always expected that one day it would be Nessie sitting across from him, and they’d talk about something funny one of their children had said or done, or when the rains would come. The world he thought was coming vanished on that winter road.

‘Did Nessie mention anything to you about the governess leaving to get married?’ I asked.

Tom’s head jerked up, surprised by my voice, or perhaps by the question.

‘No, she was dismissed. It upset Nessie and Flora too.’

‘Why was she dismissed?’

‘Because of all those rich young men Kirkbride was always having to stay, dangling Nessie and Flora like bloody breeding stock. Trying to arrange their marriages to suit his bloody purposes.’

‘What’s a governess got to do with that?’

‘Kirkbride overheard her sympathising with the girls. Wouldn’t tolerate being undermined in his own home, so out she went.’

We continued to drink in silence and I considered what he’d told me. Either I was an extremely poor judge of character or Tom had a particularly cold-blooded form of moral insanity. Or Baines was just wrong. But then Tom brought up another possibility.

‘Remember that rich meathead from up north came visiting at Inveraray? Or maybe you were on the nose then. He couldn’t stop the drool running down his chin when he looked at my Nessie, and she served him tea and smiled while her father …’ He stopped and shook his head, buried his face in his hands.

‘In cattle, was he?’

‘Bindagabba Downs, big holdings. Right on the border with Queensland and beyond. Kirkbride would have sold my girl for that land.’

‘Is that near the Yantabulla stock route?’

He nodded, eyes closed, a tear swiped away.

The Yantabulla stock route was where the alleged Kirkbride bag was found. None of this was making sense, except that I did know of all those wretched suitors who trailed through Inveraray hated it, as did Tom. But marriage to a Kirkbride girl was a ticket to wealth and influence, so there was no shortage of these flabby fops, laughing loudly at Mr Kirkbride’s jokes and leering at the girls.

I couldn’t be sure but I’d always felt Kirkbride wanted me and Tom to know when these creatures were around, riding out with them or just letting the gossip run. It was a surprise Tom hadn’t thrashed one of them.