Chapter 3

The Colonial Flyer landed on Monsarrat’s desk in Parramatta every day. And really he would rather it didn’t. He had welcomed the arrival of Hallward’s paper, but had borne a grudge against the Flyer ever since it had thundered that Grace O’Leary should be executed for a crime she had not committed. Most in the press had been clamouring for her arrest for the murder of the Parramatta Female Factory’s odious superintendent, but Mobbs had been particularly vicious, calling her a soulless harpy whose removal from the colony and the world would immediately improve both. Monsarrat had certainly never expected to be standing outside the wooden-gated archway that led into the courtyard of the building where it was published.

Monsarrat had walked here over rutted dirt streets without the neat borders of those near Government House, past low wooden houses in indifferent repair, piles of refuse rotting outside them. Women sat on porches feeding babies or playing with their children, or they stood on the corners touting a less innocent kind of fun. ‘Share a dram with a woman, would you?’ some called, raising a bottle like a temptation to Monsarrat and any other man who passed. There were no convict work gangs in The Rocks – perhaps the government did not feel the place worthy of a bonded workforce’s attention, with its jagged, inhospitable foreshore – but many of them would live here, or try to, once their sentences expired.

Handcarts far outnumbered coaches, and they contained vegetables, rags or wood. Smallholders had set up stalls wherever they felt like it; such a practice was probably against colonial regulations, but no one here seemed to mind. One merchant, however, seemed unsure of what he was selling. The man had a rasping voice and the crooked nose of a boxer. His hair, which had long since deserted his head, might have been red judging by his grey-flecked beard and the remains of old sunburn blisters on his face. ‘Jewellery!’ he yelled. ‘Fine watches! Sidearms! Musket balls!’

Monsarrat was sorely tempted to look at the weapons, perhaps ask a price. But acquiring a gun might lead to him firing it, and his freedom would race away with the shot. In any case, he didn’t know how the merchant had come by his odd collection of merchandise, but he probably hadn’t done so honestly.

He had similar doubts about the honesty of the man he was about to see. He would very much have liked Mrs Mulrooney’s company, but she was otherwise engaged. As they had left Government House that morning, Duchamp’s sister had darted across the entrance hall. She had moved at such speed that her skirts, rustling against the marble floor, sounded as though they were urging the partygoers to silence. ‘You must walk with me in the new public gardens,’ she had said to Mrs Mulrooney. ‘They’re delightful. Shall we say this afternoon? I always enjoy a stroll after a garden party, especially if I’ve overindulged in the cakes.’ She had smiled, given Mrs Mulrooney’s hand a last little pat, and disappeared back into the throng.

So Monsarrat now had an unsavoury prospect ahead of him: meeting alone with the man who had argued for the need to impose state-sanctioned strangulation on the woman Monsarrat hoped to marry.

Through the wooden gates, the courtyard was littered with the usual detritus of industry: carts, buckets, coalscuttles, hay for the horses that delivered the Flyer’s brand of morality throughout the colony, and more paper than Monsarrat had ever seen in one place, rolls and rolls of it. He was struck, for a moment, by the power wielded by Gerald Mobbs – the power to decide what truths or lies the blank paper would reflect by tomorrow.

Monsarrat lifted his fist and hammered, a little too loudly, on a small wooden door set into a stone wall. It was opened by a hulking man in shirtsleeves, his index finger stained black. ‘Most people know not to knock in the afternoon. Not when we’re trying to get the edition together.’

‘I won’t keep you, then,’ said Monsarrat. ‘It’s been suggested I seek out Gerald Mobbs.’

‘Suggested by whom?’

Already irritated by his peremptory treatment at Government House, Monsarrat was stung by this challenge. He drew himself up, staring at the man for a moment in silence. ‘Colonel Edward Duchamp, as it happens.’

The name did not inspire the awe he had hoped for, but it did make the man open the door a little wider. ‘Mobbs’s upstairs – just back from a job, so he says – with cake crumbs on his waistcoat,’ the man said, inclining his head towards a rickety set of steps near the corner of the room. ‘Don’t touch anything on your way through.’

The cavernous room was filled with rows of large, slanted tables, where men were selecting tiny blocks carved with letters and dropping them into frames. Monsarrat leaned over to see if he could discern the story that was being composed for printing, but the man who had opened the door called out, ‘You distract these lads, you’ll pay for any delays. And it costs.’

An iron press crouched in a corner, silent for now, waiting to be fed.

‘An impressive machine,’ Monsarrat said.

‘Two hundred pages an hour,’ the man said proudly. ‘Chronicle can’t match it.’

Certainly not now, Monsarrat thought. ‘May I ask,’ he said to the man, ‘after the shooting of Hallward, how were spirits round here?’

‘Not much love between those two, but none of us felt any joy at it. No one likes the thought of someone going around shooting newspapermen. Mr Mobbs was very affected by it. Led us in a little prayer, and he’s not a praying man.’

Monsarrat made his way through the room towards the stairs to the first storey. They didn’t seem as though they’d be up to supporting the weight of a man like the one at the door, but they supported Monsarrat well enough, delivering him into a room full of men scratching at pieces of paper. The air was thick with pipe smoke, and with the noise of men raising their voices to be heard over their work. One of them stopped mid-yell to nod towards the wooden door behind which sat Sydney’s only remaining newspaper editor. There was no answer to Monsarrat’s knock, so he nudged the door gently with the toe of his shoe, and it opened halfway.

‘If you go to the trouble of opening a ruddy door, at least have the sense to open it all the way,’ said a rasping voice with a flat, northern English accent.

‘Forgive me,’ said Monsarrat, doing as he was told. ‘I’ve been sent by –’

The man held up his finger for silence, hastily scribbled something on a piece of paper, then looked up and said, ‘Well?’

‘Edward Duchamp sent me. Well, his office did, anyhow. On the matter of the murder of Mr Hallward.’

‘Ah, yes, I saw you this morning. Duchamp must have whisked you away so quickly we didn’t meet. Better come in then, eh.’ The man gestured to a rickety chair in front of his desk. Like his staff, he was dressed in shirtsleeves. Unlike them, he wore a neatly tied silk cravat under his topiary of a moustache – a far different proposition than a convict beard that grew through lack of intervention, it spoke of intent and precision, the imposition of will. The rasp in his voice was, in all likelihood, due to the pipe smoke that seemed thicker in this office than in the area outside. ‘So what have you to do with Hallward’s death?’ he asked.

‘I’m looking into the matter.’

‘You’re not a constable.’

‘No.’

‘So a yard of pump water, dressed as – what, a clerk or a cleric? – walks into my office and tells me he is investigating a murder, in place of the police. At the request of the governor’s office. What is to be made of that?’

‘I’m sure I couldn’t say,’ said Monsarrat. Behind the words, he could sense tomorrow’s editorial being composed in Mobbs’s head.

‘You could, though. Does the government not trust the constabulary? Is this something a little sensitive, shall we say, that they’d rather be handled discreetly?’

‘As far as I’m aware, sir, they simply want to find out who killed him.’

‘I’m not that desperate for readers, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ Mobbs said with a smile, perhaps expecting an answering chuckle, which did not come.

‘Yet the Chronicle has not published an edition since the day of Mr Hallward’s murder,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Whether or not you are desperate for more readers, you must certainly have them now.’

‘Not worth it at this cost. No matter how much I disliked the man.’

‘Oh really? Professional jealousy?’

Mobbs shook his head, his jaw clenching. ‘He was going to bring me down with him!’

‘How would he have managed that?’

‘He loved stirring hornets’ nests. It was a sport to him. And he most enjoyed stirring the governor. Every day he attacked the man – treatment of convicts, land grants, appointment of magistrates. If it rained, it was the governor’s fault, and also if it didn’t.’

‘And how did that make you a target?’

‘News must travel slowly up the river,’ said Mobbs. ‘You’ve not heard about the licensing, then, in that scab of a town you come from?’

This disdain from a man who had tried to meddle in the affairs of that town – to bring death down on a woman he had never met – sent a pulse of anger through Monsarrat. The shadow in his mind opened an eye. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to tamp it down.

‘Yes, news can occasionally get stranded on the riverbank before it makes its way into Parramatta. Licensing, you say?’

‘Governor Darling wants all newspapers to be licensed by the state. It would make us little more than pamphlets, tracts proclaiming the glory of the Crown and its representative here, interspersed with the occasional notification on changes to regulations and so forth. Not that it would matter – no one will buy newspapers anyway if the governor gets his way.’

‘Why not? If you’re all struggling under the same conditions.’

‘Because the governor also wants to charge four pence duty. You really think someone is going to pay a day’s wages for a propaganda sheet?’

‘I see.’

Mobbs let out a bitter laugh, stood up and moved over to a grimy window. ‘Within half a year. And all because Hallward couldn’t help himself. I will never – never – understand why he came all this way to wreck, not to build. I chose this place, Mr Monsarrat. Wanted a chance to be in at the start. God saw I was the man for it. But Hallward collected enemies as easily as this window collects dust – practically anyone with any influence. He worked on the jealous assumption that all wealth and power are ill-gotten, conferred in clandestine meetings, obliging the recipients to favours that work against the good of the people.’

‘He believed there was a degree of corruption, then,’ Monsarrat said.

‘With the fervour of a zealot. He saw it wherever he looked, whether it was there or not.’

‘And do you think, on occasion, he was right?’

‘Who’s to say? But he certainly spent a decent amount of time in prison. On the past few occasions, the jury was dismissed. Couldn’t come to an agreement. Odd, given that they were military men, and that the injured party was the governor.’

‘The governor?’

‘Oh yes. Governor Darling has had a busy few months since he arrived, that fellow. Arrested Hallward over a story on the mistreatment of some soldiers. I was surprised by that, actually, because I’d also criticised Darling for it, just with less poison than Hallward applied.’

‘And this last time?’

‘Was for an editorial on licensing. The governor doesn’t appreciate being called ignorant. No, Hallward was his own worst enemy.’

‘Well, that’s clearly not the case, as he didn’t shoot himself in the head.’

‘No, and I wish you the best of luck in trying to identify the gunmen in such a crowded field. I’ve been going over my own editorials, trying to ascertain whether someone might wish to plant a ball in my own head.’ Mobbs shivered, moved quickly away from the window.

‘If you fear Hallward may not have been the only editor to anger someone to the point of murder, the news of his death must have been disturbing. May I ask, where were you when it happened?’

‘It was – when – around ten in the morning, yes? That morning I was at the Colonial Secretary’s Office, talking to a clerk. Boring fellow. Wanted to show me his new file room. I took notes, no intention of doing a story, but couldn’t hurt to keep the man on-side. That’s where I found out about it. News travels fast in administrative circles. A messenger arrived, blurted the news out to the chief clerk. Well, I raced back here quick as I could.

‘If you want me to name the chief targets for the bile that came from the tip of Hallward’s pen, half of them were at the garden party: businessmen, pastoralists. Hallward had written that the governor’s toadies were being elevated over the competent, and that the colony would ultimately die as a result, murdered by cronyism. Perhaps, Mr Monsarrat, that cronyism began its murder spree with Hallward.’

If that was the case, thought Monsarrat, cronyism must have fired its shot from some height.

Duchamp had shown no inclination to allow Monsarrat to visit the gaol. But the land outside was public property.

The autumn air was still mild, even in the late afternoon, but the chill in the shadow of the gaol walls made Monsarrat glad of his black frock coat, which he would cheerfully have cast aside in the warmer months had propriety allowed it.

The gaol crouched on a patch of land hemmed in by what looked like houses, although they were probably divided into apartments. It seemed unlikely that anyone who could afford a house all to themselves would have risked breathing the same air as the inmates day after day. The prison’s sandstone walls, golden in the afternoon sun, concealed a yard where the state – having decided exile was no longer sufficient punishment – squeezed the last breaths from the worst of the prisoners. The stone expanse was only relieved by an arched gate, its dark wood studded with reinforcing nails; it had probably been built by some of those who eventually languished behind it.

The shot must surely have come from one of the nearby houses, although it was impossible to tell which one. Not without standing where Hallward lost his life. The spot was only a few yards away, but it might as well be on the other side of the world.

Monsarrat heard a scrape behind him, and turned to see the gates of the gaol’s main entrance opening. Out stepped two women, clothes grey and stained, their unkempt hair hanging unbound from underneath cloth caps which had once been white. The women might have been Monsarrat’s age, or Mrs Mulrooney’s: the ravages of poverty, which had taken some of their teeth, had granted them a kind of agelessness.

They were accompanied by a rough and unshaven man, but he was clearly not a prisoner. He dropped a few coins into their hands and re-entered the gaol, closing the door behind him as the two women turned and walked towards Monsarrat.

‘Pardon me, ladies,’ he said as they passed. They stopped, stared as though he had spoken a foreign language. They were very possibly used to being addressed in different terms.

Monsarrat waited for a response. Not getting one, he nervously cleared his throat.

‘May I ask, what brought you to the gaol today?’

Silence.

‘Only, you see, I have a friend in there. I’m worried for his health, and wanted reassurance he wasn’t rotting in muck.’

The two women looked at each other, and began to move off.

‘I’m concerned enough to spend a shilling for a report on the conditions in there.’

One of them slowed, turned, but the other grabbed her elbow and hurried her along.

‘A shilling – each,’ said Monsarrat.

Both of them stopped this time, turning and staring. Monsarrat reached into his breast pocket in hopes of being able to find two shillings. Successful, he held up the two coins, one in each hand. Both of the women put out their palms, and he slowly placed a coin in each.

‘So,’ he said.

‘So,’ said one of the women – frizzle-haired, etched skin, probably the older of the two. From Lancashire, he decided, as she continued to speak. ‘Whether your friend is in muck or not depends on how much money he has. Them that can pay, they get clean bedding, better food. If they can’t – well.’

‘The wardens won’t be taking as much this week though,’ said the other woman. ‘On account of everyone having a clean cell at the moment.’

‘Really? Why is that?’ asked Monsarrat.

‘Some lord or whoever. Decided the place needed a good scrub. Wanted it cleaned from end to end.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘Couldn’t say,’ said the older woman. ‘Some of that dirt has been there since before I was transported. So your friend will have clean straw even if he hasn’t paid for it. For a few days or so, until the rot creeps back in.’

‘I see. Well, thank you.’

The older woman shrugged, nodded to her friend. As they moved away, Monsarrat wondered why an administration which was usually happy to let people sit in their own filth suddenly wanted to clean the dirtiest corners of the colony.