Skull river, p.10
Skull River, page 10
‘You’re so full of it, I remember now,’ she said, pushing me away with both hands. ‘To hell with you.’
‘Your husband will kill me, or you, or both of us, by the sounds of it. And it’s not the end I’d choose for myself. Go home to your children.’
Mary buttoned up her dress, groaning. ‘Children. Always hanging off me and whining for this or that, and there’s no time for myself and no man to put his arms around me. I’m fair sick of it. Go home to me children, ha!’
Without another word she yanked the tent flap open and flounced off silently. I settled back onto my cot, suddenly aware of how cold I was. Thinking of her breasts jouncing away from me in the night, I cursed myself for a fool with a wowser of a dog.
‘It’s alright for you, mate, you don’t know what it’s like, and you’re never going to know.’
The dog raised an eyebrow, shuffled around so his back was to me, curled up and gave a long-suffering sigh.
I rolled over, my face to the wall of the tent. I had the solace of virtue. I was a man of principle, a man who swore he would never bed a woman whose husband was alive. Not because it was the act of a blackguard to do so, but because it invariably ended in violence, for her or the lover. I’d seen it too many times, heard about it too – women with the life punched out of them for offering to another man what belonged to their husbands. I was, in fact, saving Mary from herself. There, conscience squared, manliness restored.
~
I woke with a bone I needed to pick with Mary, or with any nubile and willing female, come to that. I flung back the covers, filled the basin with icy water and splashed my face, reciting incipio, incipiebam, incipiam, incepi, inceperam … By the time I arrived at the future perfect I could get on with my day.
But it wasn’t just that Mary was married that prevented me from falling on her like a grunting beast. It was me – I wanted to be a better man than I had been these last ten years. Better than the shambling womaniser with whisky breath who had so hurt Flora when she was already in agony. I might never see her again, but I wanted to redeem myself anyway, to be worthy of her, and to know that I was, deep in my viscerals. I wanted to wash my stained soul in a bucket of abstinence, and for God to look down and see the glistening soap bubbles of purity. Until I’d paid for my sins, it was self-restraint for me.
That restraint had been untested, mind you, until now.
While I brooded on virtue, the dog shot out of the tent and over to a hole he’d been digging by the fence. It looked as if he were planning to bury a horse. But at that moment he was busily sniffing a grey bundle in the grass. I called him off and had a look. It was one of the tabby stable cats, dead, its body contorted in agony. Had to have taken a bait, but there was no telling where it had picked it up. I took note and, with the dog running alongside, hurried down to the butcher to get food for him so he wouldn’t be tempted. Labradors would eat anything, I knew, whereas a kelpie would rather have a word from the boss, then his tucker. Had to hope he was more kelpie.
We were too early, because the butcher had only just killed a sheep. Told me to come back in half an hour, so we kept going east along the road, my mind racing, barely noticing where we were. The gunman was still at large and I was in the open, an easy target. Then the dog took off, barking like mad. Somebody in the bushes?
The high escarpments and rugged foothills were in close distance, and the bushland was thick on either side of the road as it swung south away from the river. I was on alert, straining to hear the threat before it found me. I hoped the dog would jog back looking sheepish but he didn’t. I took my sidearm out of its holster as unease crept up into my chest and began spreading into my veins. A sharpshooter with a penchant for mounted troopers and all I had was my sidearm. I stopped, about to hurry back to safety, when the dog shot out of the undergrowth and barked at me, then ran ahead, stopped and waited.
I followed him off the dirt road to the left and along a bush track to a wide, grassy clearing with the remains of some old piece of goldmining equipment, half rusted away. A hobbled horse, a pretty grey mare, looked up and walked towards me, her liquid eyes full of relief. I kept the sidearm in my hand, because in the centre of the clearing was a tent and the dog was barking at it.
My heart raced. I scanned the surrounding scrub, hoping I wouldn’t see an armed man coming at me. The dog ran over to the horse, who lowered her head and snuffled him. She knew him. I walked a little closer to the tent, heart in my mouth.
‘Hello? You in the tent – do you need assistance?’
No reply. There was no evidence of a campfire, which was odd.
‘This is Sergeant Hawkins, Colley Station. Are you in need of assistance?
No reply. I was reluctant to undo the flap and look inside. There was no smell of death or blood, but there could be a man with a gun waiting to blow my head off.
‘Come out, if you can.’
Nothing. I undid the flap, whipped it aside and sprang out of the way. Nothing.
The dog lolloped over and went straight into the tent, sniffing all over it. He knew the tent. Then he came out and followed some scent around the place, I watched him but there was no pattern. I glanced into the tent. A bedroll was laid out but looked unslept in; there was also a saddle and saddlebags and a bridle. I dragged them out of the tent and looked around. The mare watched, eyes gleaming in the early-morning light.
My mind raced. Scanlon’s killer, come into the district meaning to do harm, camped here. And he was somewhere out there now. Or he was the body in the lock-up. Dr Pomeroy said the dog had only been around a few days, which tied in with the fire. I looked in the saddlebags. In one, a knitted cap, some twine, a hunk of stale bread and some filthy postcards. Nothing but a half-empty cardboard packet of ammunition in the other. If he was out there, he had the rifle with him, and I only had a pistol. Like a fool.
I searched the tent for anything that could identify the owner, then tied the flaps, leaving the bedroll in it. I saddled the horse and strapped the saddlebags on, mounted up and whistled to the dog, who ran over, and we quickly left.
~
As we approached the outskirts of the town, I heard something thumping or hitting a hard surface, then a smash and tinkle, then more thudding. I rode towards the sound, which was coming from the side of the hill not far from the Church of England school. As I got closer, I saw a couple of boys beside an empty cottage. They were laughing and mucking about, throwing rocks, having such a grand time they didn’t see me.
The dog ran over and they looked up.
‘Master Simmons,’ I called, recognising one of the lads.
He took one look, eyes widening in horror, and took off, his mate racing after him. Little buggers. Vandalising empty cottages and huts was a fine old pastime for kids with time on their hands. But I wanted a closer look, because Frank Simmons struck me as a budding master criminal.
The small timber cottage’s windows were smashed in and the padlock on the door had been jemmied open. Flies were thick in the putrid air. I took out my sidearm and stepped inside. The walls had been papered with old newspapers, yellowing and peeling away. Rat droppings, fox too, maybe cat, on the wooden floor, parts of which had been ripped up. The lean-to kitchen with its sturdy brick chimney still had a massive old woodburner stove, doors open, covered in rat droppings, broken windows with a tall shrub of some sort coming in through the window.
The buzz of flies intensified. At the western end of the kitchen there was a door. Probably a bedroom. Terrible smell wafting from it.
I gagged at the smell – or was it the fear? I had to stop and take a deep breath, steady myself. This is the job, so do it.
I pushed the door open, heart pumping, sweaty hands clutching my gun. Nothing except two bunks. But lying on the floor between them was the body of a cat with its head blown off and the remains of penny bungers scattered around. Little shitheads. I stepped out the back door for some fresh air. You heard about this sort of thing every time there was a cracker night. Little brutes tying bungers to dogs’ tails, or blowing their own hands off, blinding themselves or their mates. This town was no different.
Bungers, tom thumbs, flowerpots, Catherine wheels, all of them and more. What exciting creations they were to children, all their barbarian tendencies hemmed daily and then let out on cracker night. I was never allowed near fireworks, as my doctor father had seen what they did to small hands and faces. But I was allowed to hold a sparkler. Probably why I went off to war.
~
Back in town, I went to the store. Coming out were two of Mrs Foufoune’s girls, threadbare coats over their petticoats, heads bent over their waxed paper bags, examining their sweets, giggling and chaffing each other. They took no notice of me. Anywhere between thirteen and sixteen, but they’d claim to be eighteen if challenged, and proving they weren’t was a long and laborious procedure that only the most zealous officer would pursue.
Inside, I found Percy carefully building a pyramid of canned soups in the window display, and Mrs Lennox rearranging her stock to make room for packages of fireworks.
‘Mrs Lennox.’
‘Sergeant,’ she said, briefly glancing at me.
‘Sell many of those fireworks to kids?’
She snorted. ‘Who else? Why? It’s not against the law.’
‘No, but—’
‘It’s Empire Day in a few weeks, as you know. And we celebrate with a bonfire and fireworks, as does every other town in this country.’
‘Have you sold any to Frank Simmons?’
‘Yes, and to Nobby Lougher, Billy Compton, Lizzie Greer …’ She went on, ticking the names off her fingers.
No point in badgering her. As she said, it wasn’t against the law to sell firecrackers. I thanked her and turned to go, then noticed a tall bookshelf in a dark corner of her shop.
She followed my gaze. ‘The remnants of the town library, left after the Institute for the Arts shut down. Pay a coin into the tin when you take one, get it back when you return it.’
I went and looked over the spines, hoping to find something I hadn’t read. But they weren’t going to have the latest Jack London in this neck of the woods. I settled on a battered copy of Homer’s Odyssey that had washed up on this faraway shelf. I was enthralled by the Iliad and the Odyssey as a kid, knew the stories off by heart. Given the other choices, I decided, it couldn’t hurt to sail to Ithaca with Odysseus again.
12
I led the grey horse down to the pub and tied her up outside, then went over to the ostler at the coach turnaround and fetched one of our nosebags. I filled it with oats, went back and hung it around her neck. Then I headed inside, the dog at my heels.
Immediately I ran into old Len, who’d no doubt been lurking in a dark corner, brooding on the injustice of the positioning of the King’s portrait in our office. ‘Watch where yer goin’, he snapped at me. If only the name Tosser hadn’t already been taken.
Vogel was in the office, arms folded as he stared into space, thinking clean and sober thoughts. He returned to this world when he saw me.
‘Excuse me, sir, but Mrs Hilde Fitzgerald—’
‘What about her?’
‘I know her, sir, she’s from the same Lutheran congregation as mine in Wagga Wagga. We all thought she was going off to marry a rich man, but she’s no better than a servant girl here.’
‘She’s widowed. Has to live.’
‘She should go back home, sir.’
‘Mrs Fitzgerald and her circumstances are none of our business, and you and all the other troopers will treat her with respect and courtesy at all times. And do not even think of playing up with her or you will be dismissed immediately.’
‘I wouldn’t, sir,’ he said, looking injured.
No, he wouldn’t; he wasn’t that type of young man. But I’d seen Jackson staring after her, O’Malley too, and they were that type of young man. But staring was not a crime, and they were young males, and she was a young female, and all was right in the world. But, by crikey, I’d be putting some stick about if it went any further.
‘I have a job for you,’ I said.
He stood a little straighter, eyes and ears alert.
‘I need you to be my proxy at the Empire Day celebrations committee’s weekly meetings. It’s vitally important the law be consulted. But I have my hands full with the investigation. I’ll need you to read the minutes and take notes, and run all suggestions pertaining to our role by me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, pleased to be given this vital role – as pleased as I was to offload it. There’d be no whisky or talk of land grabs with Vogel in attendance.
‘Now, come and have a look at this,’ I said.
Before we could walk out, Kennedy came down the stairs. ‘Found something?’
I showed them the horse, told them what I’d found. ‘I don’t know if the horse had been hobbled for a while, and the dog appeared very familiar with the campsite, sniffing and barking. We can keep her tethered out here, ask people if they’ve seen the horse before, or if they remember the rider, that sort of thing. Vogel, that’s your job.’
‘We’ll go back up there after breakfast,’ Kennedy said, then he disappeared into the dining room.
I nabbed the newspaper from Kennedy’s desk and sat perusing it while drinking a cup of tea. I always hoped for any news of Captain Scott’s Terra Nova expedition to the South Pole, an endeavour that fascinated me. A team of Manchurian ponies were on the expedition, taken to haul supplies through the Antarctic. I considered it a bad decision and was certain I’d be proved right. But, as ever, there was no news.
A headline caught my eye: ‘Germany’s Navy’. As usual, the British government was whining about how much money the Germans were spending on naval armaments. It was a destructive arms race, the paper thundered, that if unchecked threatened to submerge civilisation and wreck society. I snorted and turned the page.
My interest was piqued by a picture of a distinguished older man, his beard tapered to a point. Too heavy on the moustache, though, too old-fashioned. Then I realised this man was Alfred Deakin, our off-and-on prime minister, whom my father greatly admired. Father’s dog, Barty, was named after Sir Edmund Barton, Australia’s first prime minister after Federation, so it made a kind of sense for me to have Alfred Deakin.
‘Alfie.’
He turned at the sound of my voice, tail wagging.
‘Alfie, eh? That’ll do you.’
He’d thrown his lot in with me, but if the owner of the grey mare also owned him, I’d have to let him go. Unless his owner was the cop killer, and was somewhere out there on this bright day making plans to bag himself another trooper.
~
Kennedy wanted to get an alibi from Edmund Wallace, the man who’d been rude to the troopers in Mrs Lennox’s shop. ‘He’s to the east – you can check that tent site again on your way.’
I left Alfie behind as I didn’t want him alerting the tent’s owner. O’Malley, with the usual flecks of porridge on his tunic, and I rode up there, tethered our horses on the road, took our rifles out and eventually found the path through the thick scrub to the clearing. The tent was gone; there was nothing now but old horse droppings to say anyone had been there. I knew the tent had been there – I’d been in it. But now it was gone.
A nearby kookaburra, a snake in its beak, bashed the life out of it against a branch, rhythmic bangs that shuddered through me.
‘Nothing there, sir,’ O’Malley said. ‘You sure it was this track?’
‘Yes.’
He said nothing but I knew what he was thinking. I had a reputation as being a bit mad, a reputation that no doubt had spread among the Bathurst mob when they heard I was coming. I was a fool to come back to the traps, a bog-standard, brown-paper fool. You could not step into the same river twice, but you sure as hell could fall in and drown.
‘We’ll go and see Wallace.’
We rode along the eastern road until I couldn’t bear the silence. Just to stop my own brooding, I asked O’Malley what he and Vogel were always arguing about.
‘Hilde. Mrs Fitzgerald. He thinks just because he knows her from Wagga that he has a better chance than me or Jackson.’
‘Ah. You like her?’
‘Yeah, and I met her when Davy was alive, so we like to swap stories, you know? Because Davy was my mate. I met him at Moore Park when we were training. He knew everything about horses, and when we had leave, he’d come with me to my parents’ farm near Camden because he didn’t have a family. Then he was posted out here. He wrote and told me how lucky he was because he’d made friends, and his sergeant was a good bloke.’
‘You came out here to see him?’
‘After I was posted to Bathurst. He took me on a picnic to the waterhole with Hilde and her husband. So why shouldn’t I talk to her?’
‘Indeed.’
‘When I first saw her, you know, she was married and all, but she was as pretty as a princess, all that golden hair, and always smiling. She’s so sad now, and, well, Jackson and I try to joke with her, to lift her spirits sort of.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Vogel goes spare when she laughs at our jokes,’ he said with some satisfaction. ‘She doesn’t laugh at his because he’s about as funny as a fart at a funeral.’
‘Did you come out here after her husband died?’
‘Went to his funeral in Bathurst with Davy, who was real cut up. Then I came out here whenever I could get away to give him a bit of company. Hilde, Davy and I, we’d walk up this road, but if we got near the waterhole she’d start crying.’
‘He died at the waterhole, did he?’
‘Yeah, they reckon he was working his claim, slipped, and went under the water and that was it, drowned. Must have knocked his head on something. That’s what Sergeant Barrett told me.’
‘You met Sergeant Barrett?’
‘Yeah, he was an old-school demon, knocking heads together, chasing the Chinamen, always looking for trouble so he could have a bit of fun. Kept him young, he reckoned.’
~
We’d arrived at the turn-off to the Wallace home and rode up the long dirt road. A large farmhouse was set in the shadow of some rugged cliffs and hills. To one side there was a thick cypress tree windbreak. The house had a verandah all around, with washing strung under cover, flapping in the breeze. A dog on a chain went berserk as we rode up.
