Chapter 14

Hannah had to admit she was impressed with Susanna’s tea. Not as good a brew as Hannah would have made, of course, but then she’d had far more time to practise. The tea was perhaps a little over-steeped, but only the most discerning drinker would have noticed. The service had clattered slightly as Susanna set it down a bit too hard, as though afraid the cups would run away if they weren’t put in their place, but this kind of wrinkle could be smoothed away with time.

Other wrinkles, though, were far more concerning. Chief among them: why had Henrietta been deep in conversation with Mobbs? In order to avoid spooking the young woman, Hannah knew she must take an indirect approach.

‘You do seem to like your walks in the gardens,’ she said, unable to resist mimicking Henrietta’s habit of holding her little finger out as she raised the cup.

‘Yes, well, it’s not Kew Gardens, but what is?’ Henrietta allowed some delicate giggles to escape. ‘You must forgive me – you’ve probably never had the pleasure.’

‘I’m afraid not, but then there are gardens in Ireland too.’

‘Indeed! You surely have visited Powerscourt, an extraordinary property! And that channel they dug so the servants can move between the house and outbuildings without anyone having to be bothered by the sight of them – quite ingenious.’

Hannah clasped her hands in front of her, otherwise she feared one of them would deliver the slap Henrietta deserved. ‘It is interesting you say that,’ she said. ‘You’re clearly an admirer of ingenuity.’

‘When it increases one’s own comfort.’

Hannah stood and wandered over to a side table where the Colonial Flyer sat alone on the polished wood. She picked it up. ‘I particularly admire the ingenuity behind producing a newspaper,’ she said. ‘Haven’t the faintest clue how they do it, of course. But to get so many copies out so quickly, bearing news of events that happened only yesterday – it is truly miraculous.’

Henrietta frowned, only for a moment, but long enough to warn Hannah to be careful. Hannah laid the paper back on the table and took her seat next to Henrietta. ‘Conversation is a much better way to find out what is going on, isn’t it? Being able to look at someone’s face when you’re talking to them tells you so much more.’

Henrietta was still suddenly. ‘Yes, you are right, of course.’ Her voice had none of its usual girlish lilt; it seemed to have deepened as her eyes probed Hannah’s face. ‘Gives you a sense, I think, of whether people are really what they seem.’

Interesting, thought Hannah. She had a choice now: maintain the fiction and get nowhere, or gamble on some judicious honesty in the hopes of forming an alliance, in a move that would risk alienating Henrietta if even one note was imperfect. She sighed, leaning back in her chair. ‘We all present a façade, don’t we?’ she said, letting her accent stretch and spring back into its original shape. ‘We tell stories to others about who we are. Not from dishonesty, but for survival. And, Miss Duchamp, I am well aware that women of your station need to stage a play every day of your lives. It must be exhausting. But perhaps a little less so if you can confide in someone who understands.’

‘Yes,’ said Henrietta, ‘a confidante is a wonderful thing. One must, though, take care to choose the right person. Otherwise one might find oneself conversing with a phantom.’

Monsarrat heard the Sheer Hulk before he saw it: singing, yelling, brawling. Just about any noise a human throat could make was being made, especially those called forth by drunkenness. The sun was beginning its descent to the horizon but, even so, those in such a state at this hour must have had rum for breakfast. As he approached, a constable standing serenely in his blue coat with its red collar nodded at him, seemingly oblivious to the clamour.

From the scuttling and smashing Monsarrat heard inside, he guessed that broken earthenware was a regular feature of nights at the public house. The barber’s pole, though, was pristine – perhaps the clientele believed it had the power of a talisman.

He heard a metal bar being lifted from the inside when he knocked on the door, which opened a crack. A large man came up behind him, with no jacket and his shirt open almost to his waist. ‘Let me in, damn you, Arthur!’ the man bellowed.

‘It’s who’ll come in after you that I worry about,’ the mysterious Arthur said from the other side of the door. ‘If this fella identifies himself satisfactorily, I’ll let you both in. Otherwise you can dispose of him before you cross the threshold.’

‘I’m here for Donnelly,’ said Monsarrat.

He heard the bar lifting again. ‘All right, in with both of you,’ said Arthur, who turned out to be a small, wiry man with strands of grey hair trickling from an almost bald dome. ‘Gaffney, I don’t need to ask you to behave yourself. I know you won’t. Mr – whoever you are, I hope you know how to handle yourself among beasts such as these.’

‘I suppose we will find out, won’t we?’ said Monsarrat.

The room was dimly lit, with a fireplace at one end and candles set at seemingly random intervals on the shelf that ran around the length of it. Below the shelf, benches jutted out from the walls, with mean tables at each. At one, a group of constables toasted the landlord when a serving woman brought them more rum; at another, a dice game was in progress. A glazed-looking man in a soldier’s uniform sat near the fire. And near him, in the corner, a table was distinguished by the fact that no one there was yelling or fighting.

‘Mr Monsarrat,’ Donnelly said, standing and waving, ‘you had better come join us. It is foolish to go unclaimed here.’ One other man was at the table, dressed soberly in the manner of a lower functionary rather than a navvy. ‘Collins, this is Mr Monsarrat. He has been engaged by Colonel Duchamp to identify the murderer of dear Henry.’

‘Are you sure it’s wise, Donnelly, to bring an administration man to us?’

‘I am fairly certain, James, that Mr Monsarrat can be trusted. And if it turns out he can’t be trusted, you can make sure we get a light sentence.’

‘If I’m still on the bench by then,’ Collins said.

‘You’ll have to forgive James,’ Donnelly said to Monsarrat. ‘Governor Brisbane had no problem appointing former convicts as magistrates, but as I told you, that has changed.’

‘Yes, passing a counterfeit promissory note apparently compromises you so completely that you can’t be trusted to utter an honest word the rest of your days,’ Collins said. ‘So the governor and his lapdog believe, anyway. There’s a rumour that he will cut the bench, remove all the former convicts and replace us with people like Albert Bancroft, who will no doubt dole out a sentence of several hundred lashes – or death by torture, as it should be known.’

A serving woman came to the table and put a cup of rum in front of Monsarrat. He lifted it, smelled it and had to stop himself recoiling. It was probably diluted, but it was rough all the same. ‘Could I trouble you for some brandy?’ he asked the woman.

The men laughed.

‘You come for rum, or you don’t come at all,’ said the woman. ‘One shilling.’

After Monsarrat had paid her and she’d wandered off, he lifted the cup. He tried to let as little liquid as possible past his lips. He was the only one not enthusiastically imbibing, but he did not want that to be a cause for mistrust.

‘So,’ said Donnelly, ‘as I said, James, I believe Mr Monsarrat can be trusted. I also believe it is in our interests to help him – I would be amazed if a successful investigation didn’t damage the administration, perhaps give them the jolt they need. And I believe that someone, somewhere has to know something that will help catch Henry’s killer, whether they realise it or not.’

‘Do you suspect anyone in particular?’ Collins asked Monsarrat.

‘Hallward annoyed a lot of people. What have you heard?’

‘What haven’t I?’ said Collins, taking a long draw from his cup. ‘A jealous lover, the government, the King, leprechauns, demons. Everyone has a motive and an opinion.’

‘And are some more frequently stated than others?’ said Monsarrat.

‘Albert Bancroft’s name has come up more than once. I must caution you, though – he is not a well-liked man, particularly not among those who have in the past been assigned to one of his properties, so the rumours about him could be wishful thinking. But I gather he owns a house opposite the gaol.’

‘Are you not aware of anything more specific?’

‘Not at this stage, I’m afraid,’ said Collins. ‘I’ll send word to Donnelly if anything comes to light.’

‘I may well see Bancroft later tonight, actually,’ said Monsarrat.

Collins frowned and made to stand, but Donnelly dragged him back down. ‘He’s going to the musical society, you fool. Isn’t that right, Mr Monsarrat?’

Monsarrat nodded. ‘Mr Collins, I too am a former convict. I have met men like Bancroft before, and bear them no love.’

Collins slowly sat back down. ‘Worth it, I suppose, to hear the wondrous Miss Albrecht play. She is very brave to keep on with it.’

‘Brave?’

‘Well, you must’ve heard – she and Henry were … sweet.’

‘I had heard, yes.’

‘If you find the culprit,’ said Collins, ‘the worst punishment would be to let Miss Albrecht loose on him. She told me she would What’s that phrase she uses, Donnelly?’

‘Ah, yes. The English translation of the German phrase about moving heaven and earth.’

‘That’s right,’ said Collins, ‘she told me she would set heaven and hell in motion to see Hallward’s killer suffer.’

Collins took one last pull of rum from his cup, put it down and stood. ‘I wish you both the best, gentlemen, but it is time I was off. I prefer not to breathe fumes over those who come before my bench – undermines my authority.’

‘Bancroft is not the only person who interests me,’ Monsarrat said after Collins had left. ‘What do you know of Gerald Mobbs?’

‘Mobbs has been the administration’s lackey since the day Duchamp stepped off the boat. He hated the fact that the Chronicle outsold the Flyer,’ said Donnelly.

‘Well, to hear him tell it, the Flyer was making money hand over fist, and the only risk to its continued profitability would have been in the Chronicle goading the government into imposing a licence or a tax.’

‘Mobbs has a habit of saying whatever is convenient and convincing himself it’s true, so those who don’t know better tend to find him quite believable.’

‘Still, he has an alibi. And he is hardly the only one who had reason to resent Hallward,’ Monsarrat said. ‘The man seemed to enjoy making enemies.’

Donnelly smiled. ‘Do you know, I think he did. If they hated him, at least they were noticing him – for Henry, being ignored, irrelevant, was a kind of death.’

‘My ability to identify the person who caused his actual death is now somewhat more constrained than it was.’

‘Yes, I’m surprised Duchamp hasn’t dismissed you already. It’s one thing to be a former convict – many are, including our friend Collins, of course – but the intimation of plotting, scheming, an ability to carry on a prolonged deception … well. Unwelcome, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, and I’m rather less comfortable than your friend was with the attention. As for why Duchamp hasn’t dismissed me, I haven’t given him the chance. I’ve steered clear of Government House today. If he means to send me back to Parramatta, he will find an opportunity eventually. Until then, I’ll do whatever I can to discover the truth.’

‘If I can help, of course –’

‘Thank you, and I accept your kind invitation to the site of the duel between Hallward and Duchamp.’

Donnelly frowned. ‘I made no such invitation, and I don’t understand what the point would be.’

‘Nor do I, yet. But the administration fears whatever Hallward was working on when he died, and the line between Hallward and Duchamp runs right through Mobbs. A duel between two of them, caused by a third, well, it merits looking into. Even if looking into it brings me no closer to the truth, it might yield something almost as valuable.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘Leverage, Mr Donnelly. My ability to continue with this investigation rests with Duchamp. If this duel runs deeper than two men shooting into the air so that they could tell themselves honour had been satisfied, I may yet be able to convince him it is not yet time for me to sail up the river.’