23

Late August and the marking of the lambs had begun. A brutal process that was hard for me to watch, involving knives and tails and balls everywhere. It was also time to dip the rams, so all the stations were busy. The ewes had their time of trial at crutching; now it was the rams’ turn to be mustered by barking dogs, forced into pens and then put through a narrow chute, from where they plunged into a long trough full of sheep dip, a mix of arsenic and other chemicals that killed lice and ticks.

A man stood by the trough with a long pole, pushing each ram under the surface of the water twice, to make sure the poor bastard got the full measure. The rams emerged into another pen, shook themselves off and looked for ways to escape. The arsenic mix splashed on the stockmen, on the working dogs and seeped into the ground around the trough.

Some blokes reckoned after the dipping they suffered from headaches and confusion, but it was considered a weakness to pay attention to such minor ailments. I reckoned they were slowly being poisoned. We used arsenic to poison every other living creature, so it made sense. But a man had to have a job so they just got on with it.

I was on my way to see Tom and stopped to watch, from a distance, the bustle and noise of the dipping. A wide, powder-blue sky, warm sun and clear, still air made for perfect conditions.

Will Fletcher nodded towards me, then walked over. ‘Come to watch the circus, eh?’

‘Thought I’d look in on Tom, see how he’s getting on.’

A shadow crossed Will’s face. ‘Nothing to do for him. Has to do it himself.’

‘Is he about?’

‘Not here, as you can see.’ He turned away from the men and the dipping and said, ‘He’s got it in his head that one of those young bucks who Kirkbride was always entertaining had something to do with it. He’s promised me he won’t do anything stupid, but he’s not himself.’

I’d never heard so many words come from Will’s mouth in one go.

‘Kirkbride won’t act, even if he too has his suspicions,’ he added. ‘But my boy will act, given half a chance.’

‘I’ll talk to him.’

He nodded and turned back to the young rams, bunched up, tussling and jostling, out to kill one another. Seeing mature rams run full force into each other’s skulls while vying for a lady sheep is quite a sight. In a pen they couldn’t do it, but that didn’t mean they didn’t want to do it.

I suspected Tom was on the right track and I wanted to feel him out, see what he knew. Maybe, after Nessie or Flora or both rejected the culprit, his pride dented, he managed to get at Grace, and then, not satisfied with that, he planned and carried out the Kirkbride murders. Now, that was a long bow to draw, but rich young men didn’t like being told no and they often suffered from a sense of invincibility – a combination that worked well in a battle setting. But add a touch of moral insanity, put the man in the joining paddock and you had a dangerous beast.

Up at the Gowrie homestead I tethered my horse under the peppercorn tree, strolled over to the front door and knocked. Miss Fletcher answered the door, her face drawn and blotchy. She told me Tom wasn’t home. I was just about to mount up when Miss Fletcher called me back. She said Mrs Fletcher wanted to speak to me, and she’d fetch Miss Gilmour to take me to her.

Sally Gilmour suddenly appeared, neat and fresh in her blue nurse’s pinafore, white-starched collar and cuffs. ‘Come with me, Constable,’ she said, in a crisp, no-nonsense manner.

I feasted my eyes on her charming behind as she led me around the verandah. Uncanny how I felt my wits desert me around this girl. Any moment I’d be headbutting the nearest male.

The Gowrie homestead verandahs were wide and shady and had optimistic garden beds running alongside filled with fleshy plants, the sort of plant that was built for arid life, slow-growing and jealously hoarding any moisture that came its way.

Mrs Fletcher was sitting in a wicker chair, a pink ribbon in her thick grey hair and a colourful crochet rug over her knees. She was seated outside what I presume was her room which had a set of French doors opening onto the verandah, obviously added when she withdrew from the world. From this position one looked out to the north-east and the station’s flower and vegetable gardens, with their pipes and tanks and brilliant greens set against the dusty background. Beyond them, the paddocks stretched away into infinity.

‘Good morning, Captain Hawkins.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Fletcher.’

‘You were at King’s with Thomas, he tells me,’ Mrs Fletcher said.

‘Three years ahead. I do remember him though, always bashing around the sporting fields.’

‘Bashing,’ she laughed. ‘Yes, that’s my Tom. His sisters are big girls too, you know. Big-boned and strong. Great hockey players, both of them.’

I thought of Robert Kirkbride, leaving her naked with a broken back in the sun for hours.

‘Tom tells me you were a cavalry officer in the Boer War.’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘I had a cousin in the Bechuanaland Rifles, under Lord Methuen. He was killed at Klerksdorp.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘And you?’

‘New South Wales Mounted Rifles, 1st Regiment, Le Gallais’ Brigade, then the 2nd Regiment.’

‘Stayed for the whole thing, eh? Good for you. Have to see things through to the end.’ Mrs Fletcher gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Perhaps you would take tea with me.’

Not an invitation, more a directive.

‘Thank you, I’d like that.’

Sally Gilmour was despatched to fetch the tea. As she walked away I found my gaze pulled towards her luscious figure.

‘She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she, Captain?’

‘Er … yes, very,’ I blustered, caught out by Mrs Fletcher’s sharp eyes.

‘Did you know that beauty, for a young girl, can be a curse? If her family has rank and position, she’ll catch a good husband with it, but if she’s from the lower orders, she’s pursued, harassed and abused, and is often in danger from the men around her.’

She smiled but there was a razor’s edge to it. A very uncomfortable moment passed as I did a quick moral accounting of my past dealings with pretty young girls with no family.

‘Miss Gilmour, as my employee,’ Mrs Fletcher continued, ‘indeed, as my companion, is under my protection, Captain. She’s had a difficult life and I would see that changed from here on in.’

‘Of course, Mrs Fletcher, I can assure you—’

‘Why did you stay for the whole of the war?’ she asked, putting a merciful end to my blather. ‘I would have thought one tour to be enough, given the stories.’

‘I found I had an aptitude for soldiering and was rising up through the ranks. Saw no reason to stop.’

‘You must have seen some marvellous sights.’

‘I did.’

‘Worth your injuries?’

‘I think so, yes. The injuries are pure bad luck. I signed on for a third tour, thinking I was invulnerable. Turns out I’m not.’

‘The curse of all men,’ she said with a smile. ‘And some women. Tom tells me you were raised by your widowed father. What does he think of you being out here?’

‘We are estranged.’

‘Siblings?’

‘No.’

Sally Gilmour returned with a tray of tea things, and behind her was a maid with another tray. A linen cloth was placed over the small table beside Mrs Fletcher. Cups and saucers were laid out beside mesh cake covers over plates of seed cake and small cucumber sandwiches. Sally Gilmour poured the tea and handed a cup and saucer to Mrs Fletcher and then one to me, which I fumbled as I was trying to look anywhere but at her.

‘Seed cake, Captain? It’s very good. Sally, put a slice on a plate for Captain Hawkins … Yes, that’s right.’

I juggled tea and plate, putting one down so I could deal with the other, relieved that my hand didn’t shake. I wished Sally Gilmour would remove her pretty self from the vicinity lest my boorish instincts betray me again.

‘Leave us, please, Miss Gilmour,’ Mrs Fletcher said. When we were alone, she said, ‘Don’t let the estrangement from your father go on for too long. Such silences do nobody any good, and then suddenly life is over.’

The seed cake was very good, and I made short work of it as she watched, satisfied with my appetite.

‘I expect you know how I sustained my injuries, never to walk or ride again,’ she said.

Another sip of tea.

‘You and I, we marched towards our injuries, knowing they could happen. But Tom … a young man doesn’t fall in love with anything but forever in his heart. He’s been terribly injured by the death of Nessie. He stares into the abyss every day and weeps every night. Overcoming tragedy takes years, and I worry he’s not patient enough.’

I must have appeared startled, because she said, ‘I speak frankly because I’ve no use for anything but frankness these days. I can’t ask you to help Tom if he doesn’t want help, but if he does …’

‘If I can help him in any way, I will, of course.’

‘He may speak more openly to another young man than to his mother. Knowing how Nessie died, the torment she endured at the hands of those beasts … I think it’s more than he can bear.’

We talked of other things, and I left after promising I would keep an eye out for Tom. As I walked back to my horse, I couldn’t help but dwell on Mrs Fletcher’s words. How did she know the circumstances of Nessie’s death, when even Nessie’s own mother didn’t know?

~

While I was taking tea the wind had blown up, and when I left it chased me down the long drive, past the penned rams and shouting men. Much further along were the Gowrie laundries, the long rows of clotheslines, held up by forked saplings, with white sheets and tablecloths flapping in the wind. I saw Sheila Stewart again and waved to her. She beckoned me over.

‘Miss Stewart.’

‘Look, I couldn’t stop to talk the other day,’ she said, pushing her spectacles back up her nose, the wind teasing her hair from its bindings. ‘But I remembered something about Sally Gilmour and Jimmy Kirkbride. You still interested?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I change Mrs Fletcher’s bedding, you know – I go in there and take the dirty sheets away. Sally’s gathering up the other linen for the bag and sometimes we chat. She used to laugh about Archie Beavins, but said he was useful.’

‘For what?’

‘I couldn’t see the use of him meself, beyond fixing fences and droving sheep, but that’s me. And Sal has no time for any bloke, not really – said they was all filthy dogs. Had to agree with her there, so when she said, a few days before the dance, that she’d see Jimmy Kirkbride there, I was curious. ’Course, Jimmy has money, and a rich dog’s better than a poor dog, but I said he’d go to the ball in Cobar, surely. And she said no, he’d be coming for her. All confident and glowing she was, because she’d promised him he’d get what he deserved. I thought she meant a kiss or summat more. But maybe she knew something else?’

‘Thank you for coming forward with this, Miss Stewart.’

‘I’m just sorry it didn’t occur to me earlier … The house was in an uproar and old Miss Fletcher was riding us maids something cruel, so I forgot.’

~

Back at the Calpa police station, a head full of questions, I rushed in the back and rummaged around for my private files. Something wasn’t right and I had to know the how and why of it. But I couldn’t find it in the loose file of notes. I took my coat off and went out the back, found my axe, unwrapped the oilcloth, then set a short log on the stump.

I raised the axe, wincing at the sensation as my scars stretched, then brought the axe down hard, watching the two halves fall aside. It was the signal to the stable cats to stop what they were doing and come and watch. They took to their positions on the roof of the woodpile, flicked their tails and waited. What for, I did not know.

I set a half on the stump. Thought of Jimmy going to the dance and organising the procedure for Grace for the same night. Brought the axe down hard, watching splinters fly. Put a quarter on the stump. By God, Jimmy was a cocky so-and-so, but that was outrageous, even for a Kirkbride.

With a combination of force and precision I whacked the quarters into eighths. The cats yawned, so what? Lonergan appeared, put his horse in the stable and eventually joined me.

‘Found Mrs Jordan and her kids stuck on the eastern road with a broken cartwheel.’

‘You fix her up?’

‘Yeah, enough for her to get home.’

I fetched another short log set it up on the block and looked at Lonergan.

‘Yeah, right, I know, go and write it up.’

As he walked off I brought the axe down hard, watched the halves fall aside like two heads under a guillotine.

Lonergan came back outside, leant against the water tank and watched. Without looking up, I said, ‘You heard Corcoran give the order that no one was to know how the Kirkbrides died. That they died of gunshot wounds.’

Set a half on the log. Raised the axe, feeling the pain shoot down my side.

‘Yeah, and Denning said the same thing,’ he said. ‘But people talk.’

‘Have you heard anyone anywhere speak of bashing and rape?’ I said, and brought the axe down hard.

‘No … but then, I don’t let people question me. I says it’s police business. Shuts ’em up.’

‘Bob Kirkbride, you, me, Joe, Corcoran, Parry, Denning, Martin and Baines, plus the autopsy doctor and his assistants, are the only ones who should know.’

I set a quarter on the stump, raised the axe.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because a person who shouldn’t know what actually happened to Nessie does know. Somebody talked.’

I brought the axe down and saw the two pieces fall, only I hadn’t made perfect eighths.

‘The coroner’s assistants, maybe?’ Lonergan said, and started picking up the chopped wood and stacking it. Watching him jam the eighths into the pile tested me, but I held my tongue.

‘They’d be under strict, legally enforceable instructions not to discuss their coronial work. And as Mrs Kirkbride and probably Miss Flora Kirkbride were not to be told, it would be egregious to speak of it.’

‘Who knows?’ he asked.

‘Mrs Fletcher.’

He nodded, scratched his chin slowly. The screen door at the back opened and closed. One of the stable cats, a manky piebald I named Kleptes for his relentless kitchen pilfering, crept out.

‘What’s he doing in there?’ I snapped.

Lonergan turned to look, stamped his foot and the cat shot off to the stable. His two mates on the woodpile blinked at me. They were decoys, had to be. I put the axe down, found my cigarettes, lit one and shook the match flame out.

‘Sally Gilmour knew Jimmy was going to the dance,’ I said. ‘She knew it days before.’

‘Wasn’t a last-minute change of plans, then? Because that’s what Baines reckoned it was.’

‘Nope, Jimmy was planning to go.’

And planning to get Sally Gilmour in the joining yard at some later stage. The coldness of the plan beggared belief. A bit of carnal refreshment with Sally while his little sister was undergoing an illegal, dangerous procedure at the hands of a drunkard.

‘And it wasn’t just Jimmy who was going after Sally, it was also Archie Beavins,’ I said.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Those pigs who stampeded Dancer, Maroney and Kelly, said Beavins was stuck on her. They said Beavins left the dance early with two men called Hirst and Shawcross because Sally was making him jealous with Jimmy Kirkbride. And all three men lied in their statements about when they returned to their quarters.’

The thruppence I’d found at the crime scene belonged to Beavins, so I had to assume he was there. Maybe paid to be there. Paid to be there and kill the Kirkbrides by some rich young man with a grudge who melts away when the deed is done.

Beavins could be the man who ran south, zigzagging through the scrub, horrified by what he’d witnessed. Or done. He tells his girl, Sally, swears her to secrecy, and she, who brings news of the outside world to Mrs Fletcher, relates the details of the killings. That had to be how it had worked. Which meant that Sally Gilmour – if Hirst and Shawcross were the murderers – was in serious danger. I had to find those two quickly.