Chapter 8

‘I would like to think your presence here would mean I have less work, Mr Monsarrat, not more.’ Edward Duchamp did not bother to look up from the papers on his desk. ‘You are not here simply to attend garden parties.’ He did look up then, staring at Monsarrat over the rim of his spectacles. ‘Or recitals, for that matter.’

‘With respect, sir, I rather think that what I do with my time in the evenings is my own concern,’ Monsarrat risked saying in as calm a voice as he could manage.

‘Not when it involves Carolina Albrecht. Whatever the nature of her friendship with Hallward – and I have my own thoughts on that score, let me assure you – she is a woman of questionable morals and even more questionable honesty. Who knows what she is capable of. You should have a care about the company you keep. You are, after all, representing the Crown.’

The same Crown, thought Monsarrat, which decided I was no longer fit to be a subject. Which felt it necessary to prevent me from ever returning to England.

‘I do assure you, Colonel, that my integrity has not been affected by my listening to a piano concerto.’ His reckless shadow twisted and stretched. ‘And a very well-played one, at that.’

Duchamp was silent, assessing him. ‘Yes, well, the very fact that we are discussing this, rather than the business at hand, is concerning.’

‘And it’s that business I’ve come on. I had no intention of providing you with a review of Miss Albrecht’s performance. You must know, sir, that unless I am allowed to visit the site of the murder, there are limits to what I can accomplish.’

‘I don’t see why. Everything is being cleaned up and the protests are ongoing. You’ve spoken to the warden, and I sent you over to see Mobbs. I might arrange a conversation with Archdeacon Harvey as well – he might have some illuminating things to say: a complaint by him led to one of Mr Hallward’s stretches in prison.’

‘Nevertheless, I must insist on a visit to the prison yard. Protest or not.’

Duchamp leaned back in his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said eventually. ‘Now that I think of it, perhaps a visit might be beneficial. I should at least appear at the protests. Let these people know the Crown is watching. Symbols are important, you know. No harm in showing them the personification of our efforts to catch their hero’s killer.’

Monsarrat had never been in this gaol. In a colony where educated men were scarce, as a convict Monsarrat had immediately been placed in the Colonial Secretary’s Office, where his daily duty was to inscribe tickets of leave, conferring freedom on others while remaining a slave himself.

Today, the gaol’s gate was concealed behind a mass of bodies, mostly men, with a few dourly dressed women sprinkled between, waving placards and whooping in response to a speech being made by a slight man who stood on a stool. He wore the rough, sturdy brown suit a farmer might choose when visiting town, although this man had added an incongruous scarlet cravat. His dark hair probably sat in a luxuriant wave when brushed, but it was mounting a protest of its own, sticking out at odd angles above a face smattered with freckles. He made no attempt to restrain it, as his hands were too busy gesticulating. He and his audience had not yet noticed Monsarrat and Duchamp watching from their coach.

‘Some of you have tickets of leave in your pockets,’ the man was saying. His accent had a tinge of Irish to it but oddly elongated vowels, a manner of speaking Monsarrat had first heard only recently. ‘Some of you arrived here willingly, removing yourselves from all that was familiar to contribute to the building of a robust, prosperous colony. And what have you found? An administration committed to shepherding this place towards a truly civil society? A governor committed to upholding the rights of the King’s subjects, citizens of this extended version of Britain?’ The man paused for the jeers and howls he must surely have known were coming. ‘No, you have found a man who believes that you are his subjects, not the King’s. He believes that New South Wales is his own feudal land, and treats Government House as though it is his ancestral seat. And we know, do we not, the best way to deal with such a man?’

‘Revolution!’ yelled someone in the crowd.

‘Now, I must stop you there, my brother,’ the speaker said. ‘We are not French, after all.’

In the coach, Duchamp shook his head and glanced at Monsarrat. ‘My grandfather was French, by the by,’ he said. ‘And judging by your surname, not all of your forebears came from England either.’

‘No. Some were from France,’ he said. Whence they fled to escape persecution for their faith, and would not be happy to see their descendants being persecuted for their class, he thought.

‘Revolution is a blunt instrument, a tide that sweeps away the innocent as well as the guilty,’ said the speaker. ‘I think we can manage a little more finesse, don’t you?’

The crowd laughed, and Monsarrat saw some of them square their shoulders and stand a little taller. They were not, after all, a rabble – they had been given permission to think of themselves as capable of finesse.

‘My friends, the best way to deal with tyranny is truth. You may not have the opportunity to vote for the governor, but he cannot hold power if the people of this colony lose faith in him. And if they are acquainted with his perfidy, they will.’

A man near the front yelled, ‘They only need to open the windows and stick their heads out to smell the rot on the breeze.’

‘Ah, yes, but some of them would rather not,’ said the speaker. ‘They would prefer not to have to deal with such an uncomfortable reality. Not unless they are forced to. And they were forced to.’ He paused, lifted his head and shouted into the sky, ‘They were forced to by a man who was slain for his honesty, his body hitting the ground not twenty yards from where I stand!’

His audience stamped the ground, rattled their placards, punched their fists into the air. Monsarrat had to restrain himself from getting out and joining them. Protest was for the free, and he hoped that one day he too could indulge his passion for just complaint.

‘And where is justice for Henry Hallward? Where is the truth about his death? It lies beside him in the grave!’

In the coach, Duchamp turned to Monsarrat. ‘Are you feeling brave this morning?’

‘Brave enough, I suppose.’

‘Good man. I’m not, but needs must.’ Duchamp stepped out of the coach.

The man who had been speaking spotted him immediately. ‘Ah! My friends, let no one tell you that protest is meaningless, that you are shouting into the void. Your cries have drawn here no less a person than the governor’s private secretary!’

The crowd rushed at the coach, and the guard sitting with the coachman began to shoulder his gun. Duchamp turned to him and shook his head, then walked further from the coach. The crowd was still, silent, gathering around him like a storm.

Damn fool’s going to get himself killed, Monsarrat thought, even as his legs disobediently carried him into the crowd behind Duchamp.

The colonel nodded to the speaker. ‘Mr Donnelly is quite right,’ he said. ‘Protest is never useless. While you may not believe it, the governor values the voices of the governed, whether that is through protest or not.’

‘The governor values authority,’ said Donnelly. ‘He values patronage. He values little else. As a beneficiary of that patronage – how many land grants have you received now, Colonel? – you are a hypocrite to suggest anything else.’

Monsarrat held his breath, waited for Duchamp to issue the order to arrest Donnelly, steeled himself to jump in to the protestors’ side of the melee should it come to that. But perhaps Duchamp was wiser than Monsarrat had given him credit for. He seemed in no mood to provoke a clash between soldiers and unarmed protestors – an event which, even without Hallward to trumpet it, would likely have resonated all the way back to Whitehall.

‘You misjudge the man,’ said Duchamp. ‘He shares your interest in punishing Mr Hallward’s killer. At the time of his death, Mr Hallward was a prisoner of the Crown, and therefore the Crown had responsibility for ensuring his safety. The governor is appalled that we failed to do so, and has authorised me to take all possible steps to identify the guilty. And to that end …’ He turned around, took Monsarrat’s elbow and urged him forward. ‘To that end, we have brought in one of the finest investigators in the colony. A man who has already conducted three highly sensitive and successful investigations, and will now bring his intellectual capacity to bear in this case. Mr Hugh Monsarrat.’

Some in the crowd, Monsarrat noticed, looked bemused. Others looked somewhat disappointed to have their cause for outrage taken away, their temper blunted.

Donnelly, though, was not among them. ‘Mr … Monsarrat, is it?’ he said. ‘Sir, how can we trust that you will prosecute this matter with vigour, given who is paying your bills? Surely it is in your interest to uphold the current system of authority, a system that resides in the person of Governor Darling?’

Monsarrat inwardly cursed. The whole point of his work was that it should be kept in the shadows. And to have been identified so publicly would give Duchamp a convenient person to blame should Monsarrat’s investigation fail. However, since he had been thrust into the public consciousness, he might as well use the opportunity to gain the trust of the people, or at least of those on the margins. And it was on the margins where the truth was often to be found. Wagering that the crowd contained at least a few clerks, he told them, ‘You are right, my salary is paid by the Crown. Such as it is – I generally function as a clerk, and I’m sure many here will know that the wages for such a position could not be considered princely.’

The chuckle that rippled through the throng told him he’d been right.

‘Surely, though, your sympathy must lie with the administration!’ said Donnelly.

‘My sympathy lies with the man who was shot here,’ Monsarrat said. ‘And I can assure you, I am more than capable of looking at the administration objectively.’

‘How could you possibly do that?’ said Donnelly.

‘Well, it helps that I was a convict for nearly ten years, and that my continued freedom depends on justice for Mr Hallward.’

In a place where the minority of people had arrived free, Monsarrat was certainly not the only former convict in the crowd. Nor was he the only one working for the administration – everything would have ground to a halt if a previous conviction was a barrier to current employment. Still, people like him did not generally advertise their past; it tended to make others uncomfortable. And it was making some people in the crowd uncomfortable now. A few – particularly women – stepped back as though they feared that the sedate clerk would transform into a tiger and consume them. Others, though, nodded slowly.

‘You don’t know me,’ said Monsarrat, ‘so it’s hardly surprising that you don’t trust me, particularly in a matter of such importance. I can, though, make you this promise: I will do everything I can to identify Henry Hallward’s killer, even if my investigation leads me in directions I would prefer not to go.’

‘I suppose we must take you at your word, then,’ said Donnelly.

‘I don’t see that you have any alternative,’ said Monsarrat. ‘You might even help me.’

‘How?’

‘Well, sir, I need to get into the gaol. Perhaps you and your supporters could oblige me by getting out of the way.’