“The face of a killer,” said Smith.
Back in Smith’s hotel room, the doctor was looking closely at Henry’s sketch of Burgess.
“How can you tell he’s a killer?”
Henry had heard about the latest craze that everyone was talking about, but could not recall the word. “Do you believe in pre … phre”
“Phrenology? No, no. Phrenology is not good science,” said the doctor. “The shape of a man’s head has nothing to do with what’s in his brain. Or his heart.”
Smith tapped Henry’s sketch of Burgess. “But I believe this is the man who killed my wife.”
Would Burgess do that?
Now Henry resumed sketching Sullivan.
“You have good hands.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Henry. “I would like to be an illustrator.” Like Johnny Slick. Writing stories and illustrating them myself.
“Why not a surgeon?” asked Smith.
Henry looked at his hands with new interest. Even his own mother had never suggested such a lofty profession.
A surgeon? Henry liked the sound of it. Henry Appleton, adventurer. Surgeon.
Smith took Henry’s drawing of Sullivan and examined it. “Excellent. Now our friend the sergeant will have to act.”
Henry’s mind spun with thoughts of becoming a surgeon, and catching the Burgess gang, and becoming an illustrator …
Then Miriama came into the room.
Miriama!
“Tea?”
Henry realised his heart was thumping again, as he saw Miriama disappear behind the curtain. He watched her diffused figure as she removed her coat.
“Henry?” Smith came closer. “Would you like tea?”
Henry jumped. “Yes! Yes, please. Sir.”
Smith unhooked the kettle from above the stove. Henry fussed with his sketch book, watching Miriama’s silhouette from the corner of his eye. She splashed water on her neck and shook her head to release her hair. It swirled about her.
“I need to find those men, Henry,” said the doctor, handing him a cup of tea. “I’m counting on your help.”
He followed Henry’s stare and saw Miriama’s shadow. His eyes seemed to cloud, and they flicked to the picture of the woman in the locket. He walked to the window and looked out at nothing.
Miriama emerged from behind the curtain, no longer disguised as a man. Henry was aware that he was staring again.
Abruptly Smith turned from the window, and waved Henry away. “Go, go.”
What? Henry was bewildered. A minute ago Smith was praising his sketches, and suggesting he become a surgeon, and now…
Miriama opened the door, and gave Henry an apologetic look.
Henry stumbled out, confused, still holding his tea cup. The door closed behind him. What did I say?
For a moment he stood there, trying to make sense of his sudden dismissal. Then he thought of Miriama. He put down the cup and bounded down the stairs, onto the street. Grinning, he untied Duke, and was about to mount when Doctor Smith strode out of the hotel, clasping Henry’s sketches.
Smith marched up the street. Where’s he going? Henry was intrigued.
He followed at a distance, leading Duke. Once again they headed along Bridge Street. Excellent! He’s going to show the sergeant my sketches.
Smith entered the sergeant’s office. Henry tethered Duke and went to a side window to peer in.
“Doctor Smith – back again so soon?” said the sergeant. “On the Good Lord’s day?”
Smith did not respond, but laid Henry’s sketches on the sergeant’s desk with a flourish. “These are the men I told you about.”
Sergeant Nash looked closely at the sketches. “Did young Henry draw these?”
At the window, Henry smoothed his hair and grinned.
“Yes…” began Smith.
“He has a talent, doesn’t he, that boy.”
“Never mind.” Smith tapped the sketches. “One of these men – at least one – is a murderer.”
“They are good sketches, Doctor Smith. But these men have committed no crime that I know of.”
“One of them murdered my wife in cold blood.”
Sergeant Nash raised his eyebrows. “But the proof?”
“The fingerprint in blood!”
Sergeant Nash picked up the paper with his fingerprint and Henry’s. “There’s the rub, Doctor Smith. Even if the man’s print does match, we still have to demonstrate that you obtained it from the place the crime was committed.”
Smith stood up straight and declared solemnly, “I, Zephaniah Smith, give you my word as a gentleman.”
Zephaniah! At the window, Henry gasped. At last the “Z” was explained. Zephaniah, a prophet in the Bible. What a strange name for an Englishman! Zephaniah, who was squashed between Habakukk and Haggai in the Old Testament.
Sergeant Nash, the tough Irish soldier, tried not to smile at the English “gentleman” standing stiffly before him. “Alas,” he said, “your word as a gentleman is not quite enough for a jury.”
“God save me!” cried Smith.
At this moment, Miriama joined Henry at the window, a shawl draped over her head and shoulders. She touched his hand and smiled. Henry smiled back, eager to connect, but Miriama was focused on the men in the office.
“So what do you propose?” demanded Smith.
Sergeant Nash shrugged. “I will send a letter to the police in Sydney for details of their investigation into your wife’s death…”
“A letter? Why not a telegraph?”
It was a good question. Henry knew an insulated copper cable was being laid across Cook Strait this very year, to enable the new-fangled telegraph messages to be sent between the South and North Islands. But Australia?
The sergeant smiled. “We are not connected to Australia yet, I’m afraid.”
“A letter will take weeks,” Smith fumed. “The culprit will be gone.”
“Doctor, I cannot send deputies into the hills looking for men who have not committed a crime here. If they come into town we’ll keep a watch on them.” The sergeant stood. “Meanwhile, Doctor, please do not be tempted to take the law into your own hands.”
Smith snorted. “The law? The ‘law’ seems to have forgotten this crime, Sergeant.”
“I understand your frustration. But please be patient. I do not wish to see you in court.”
Smith turned and marched out. Henry and Miriama were waiting.
“You heard that?” The doctor’s face was flushed. “A devil murdered my beautiful wife – and I’m told to have patience.”
Miriama placed a hand on Smith’s arm, but he pulled away. “He must face justice.”
Henry stared at Smith, in awe of his intensity.
“I won’t give up until his blood is spilt just like Alicia’s,” Smith declared.
What? “Sir – you said you would hand him over to the sergeant! Not kill him!”
Smith looked at Henry, stony-faced. “You’re too young to understand,” he said.
Too young? Henry hated the way adults could so easily dismiss someone like him. As if I don’t know the difference between right and wrong.
Miriama watched with concern as Smith strode off. “The Chinese have a proverb,” she said quietly. “Before embarking on a journey of revenge, you should prepare two graves.”
“Two graves?” asked Henry.
“One for your enemy, one for yourself,” she said. “When a man seeks revenge, he will die too.”
Miriama pulled the shawl around her and ran after Smith.
Henry watched, powerless to stop either of them, and angry at being labelled as “too young to understand”. He knew what Doctor Smith was planning was wrong. But he did not have the courage to challenge him.
Henry saw Miriama catch up with Smith and walk a few paces behind him. She took a quick glance back at Henry. He raised his hand to wave, but too late. Smith and Miriama had left the street and disappeared around the corner.