Chapter 15
‘You are under no obligation to go, of course,’ Monsarrat said to Mrs Mulrooney, back in the boarding house parlour. He was standing in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece, fiddling with his cravat. It had come askew at the Sheer Hulk, as though breathing the air of the place resulted in instant dishevelment. ‘If you’re tired.’
‘The elderly get tired of an evening, Mr Monsarrat. You’re not suggesting that I am among their number, I hope.’
‘I would not dare. Especially not since you have the fan. What is it – wood? Ivory?’
‘Which is harder?’ asked Mrs Mulrooney. ‘If it is not the kind I have, I’ll be sure to get it. Now, you won’t stop me from coming tonight. We need to speak to that Bancroft fellow.’
‘And try not to scare him in the process,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I’d rather he not know that I’m aware of the ownership of that house. As it is, making another appearance at the music society after being warned off by both Duchamp and Bancroft – it’s a declaration of sorts. What I don’t know is whether it will serve to flush out information or send people to ground. We have to try, though.’
‘It’s just that we are attempting a fair bit of flushing, at the moment,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Between Bancroft and Henrietta, not to mention our friend Vindex.’
‘Yes. Not only is Miss Duchamp somehow connected to Mobbs, but whoever hit Hallward in the forehead from such a distance would need to be a good shot, and according to Reverend Alcott she is. Along with the colonel and any number of other men, of course.’
‘Did Alcott talk about Mobbs’s shooting prowess?’
‘Hopeless, apparently.’
‘And his own?’
‘Hm. No, actually.’
‘It’s interesting that he chose not to, given he seems to believe Hallward was intent on bringing down the government. And that he bore a personal grudge against the man.’
‘The problem is,’ said Monsarrat, patting his cravat, ‘we have too many possibilities, and the weather vane seems to be pointing to them each in turn.’
‘Yes, everything is wrinkly,’ said Hannah. ‘It could just be minding its own wrinkly business, or it could all be connected somehow – the house, the grudges, the guns.’
Monsarrat had been worrying away at his own wrinkle: the German expression James Collins had used, the one that Miss Albrecht often said. There was a faint tinge of familiarity to the phrase.
‘Well, hopefully we’ll get some answers tonight. At the very least, I want to know how somebody who has the rank of colonel managed to miss twice at ten paces.’
On the stage was a woman in her thirties, her hair decorated with long scarlet feathers held in place by glittering clips, her over-rouged cheeks quivering as her voice tried and failed to take flight, to do what the aria she was singing demanded.
Mrs Mulrooney leaned towards Monsarrat. ‘The sacrifices I make for you,’ she said.
‘Yes, you’re a very good auntie.’ He smiled, flinching at the thought that the fan might materialise.
Before it could, the woman finished her song to a smattering of polite applause. It was the most courtesy anyone in the hall had shown her all evening; a number of unabashed conversations had been taking place, and very few eyes had been on the singer.
These included Bancroft’s – he had been surreptitiously glancing at Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney all evening. And after Bancroft shook a few hands, clapped a few gentlemen on the back and bowed to a few ladies, he made his way towards the newcomers. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Not busy enough?’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ said Monsarrat. ‘We were hoping to hear Miss Albrecht.’
‘Who was far better than that little dumpling tonight,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.
Bancroft pursed his lips and glared at her. ‘She happens to be my niece.’
‘You should talk to her parents, then,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘See if they can guide her towards a more suitable occupation.’
Monsarrat shot Mrs Mulrooney a warning look. She frowned at him but went silent, at least for now.
‘Forgive my aunt,’ he said to Bancroft. ‘Charming as your niece is, we are also here to see you.’
‘I’ve already made it clear that I wish to limit our association,’ said Bancroft.
‘Your wishes will be respected, naturally,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I do, however, have a question that you are in a unique position to answer. You were a military man at one point – I can tell from your bearing.’
‘Mr Monsarrat, I doubt you know the first thing about me, or anyone like me. Men of honour who came by their fortunes honestly.’
Monsarrat inhaled, clenched his fists.
‘Mr Monsarrat has no fortune, but I assure you he is acquainted with honest work,’ Mrs Mulrooney said quickly. ‘No, marksmanship is an interest of ours. In fact, am I right in thinking that Duchamp is a fine shot? What about you? Were you the best marksman in your regiment?’
Bancroft glared at her. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Do you have something you wish disposed of?’
‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘When I have something I wish disposed of, I do the disposing myself.’
She smiled sweetly at Bancroft, and Monsarrat resolved to talk to her later, no matter how many thrashings with the fan he earned himself. She was, he thought, perhaps feeling emboldened by her newfound wealth and its outward manifestations. She was becoming somewhat reckless. A little bit, he had to admit, like him.
‘So why is that any business of yours? Unless you want me to bag you a magpie for your supper.’
‘Do you know, I don’t think it’s important enough to take up any more of your time,’ said Monsarrat. ‘You’re a pastoralist, I understand. I’m sure you have a long way to travel tonight. Unless you have a place to stay in Sydney?’
‘Which would be none of your concern either.’
‘I see. Well, thank you for obliging us.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t oblige you any further. If either of you ever comes here again, I shall ask you to leave in the most public and embarrassing fashion possible. The request to leave – that I would have done anyway. But the embarrassment – that, dear lady,’ he bowed stiffly to Mrs Mulrooney, ‘is for my niece.’
‘I know it’s tempting to bait a man like Bancroft, but you must try to fight the urge,’ Monsarrat said to her as they walked back to the boarding house.
‘Haven’t I been controlling myself for twenty years? I now have enough money to buy my father’s farm fifty times over – more money than I really understood existed before. Does that not buy me the right to a few honest statements?’
‘In this investigation, I very much fear it doesn’t.’
‘Then whether I am a servant or a wealthy dowager, I am equally voiceless.’
An infuriating woman, sometimes, Monsarrat thought. But deserving of a voice, more than most.
‘I know you find it frustrating. I assure you it’s not forever.’
‘Nothing is, Mr Monsarrat. And I confess to finding everything frustrating at the moment.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘No word, then, from Parramatta?’
‘Young Henson has written. He tells me that Helen is taking good care of the cottage. He says she knows how important it is to send word if any letter arrives.’
‘But none has.’
‘No.’ Mrs Mulrooney stopped suddenly and took a deep, juddering breath, gazing up at the moon. ‘Is Padraig looking up somewhere too, Mr Monsarrat, like his old mother? Or will he never look up again? And if he has died, will I ever know where he lies?’
Monsarrat felt suddenly unmoored. His friend’s fierce practicality and genial irascibility had always seemed to him as immutable as the moon she was gazing at.
‘I am sure your son’s yet above the ground,’ he said. ‘When this is over, I promise you I will bend all of my efforts to finding your Padraig.’
She smiled quickly at him. ‘You’re kind, Mr Monsarrat – don’t look surprised,’ she said as he raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re still an eejit of a man half the time, but you’re a long way from the worst of them. You’ll want to be putting some effort into looking for your Grace, too.’
Monsarrat’s step faltered. ‘I will. I know Ralph Eveleigh, though. He’s sympathetic, certainly, but he believes I was put on this earth to clean the more inconvenient messes, not to look for a convict. For him to help me – and for him to retain his position – I must solve this case and write it up in my finest copperplate hand.’