Great Historical Novels (47 page)

The boy nodded.

‘You said you thought the Quaker was the
other one
?’

‘Well, I made a mistake, see. I was told it was the Quaker who came in on the
Mathilda
who was in charge of the run to Lintin Island, but two flat-hats came in on
Mathilda
– and he was the wrong one. Which accounts for why he looked at me so strange.’

‘Then why was Josiah Blake, the Quaker gentleman you spoke to, killed?’

‘He started asking questions. He went to the dry dock and asked to see the register and found out that the
Mathilda
was never there when she was supposed to be.’

‘And what about the coining, did Josiah know about that, too?’

‘I might have let on something about it.’

Michael was beginning to wonder how the so-called criminal before him was ever going to make a career of it. ‘You
might
have?’

‘Well, it was confusing, see. I only realised what was going on when I got to Sydney. The
Mathilda
sails from Calcutta to Lintin Island with opium, collects silver and then, instead of going directly back to Calcutta, to the exchange, she sails south into the open sea where she meets with the
Sea Witch
, who’s left Sydney with counterfeit—’

‘So the counterfeit silver is exchanged for the real silver at sea, and the forged coins are absorbed into the Calcutta exchange, while the
Sea Witch
, with her cargo of real silver, sails for London?’

‘That’s it.’

‘And the master of this crime is a Quaker?’

‘I wouldn’t know for sure. It’s the ship’s captain that’s in charge at sea. I’ve never known a Quaker to go to Lintin Island.’

Michael looked at Calvin. ‘I believe that gentleman’s name is Isaac Fisher,’ he said.

The policeman was frowning. ‘Of course, it is always possible that he doesn’t even know his opium charter is collecting counterfeit on its return voyage.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Michael admitted. ‘I do know, though, that the
Mathilda
and the
Sea Witch
are the joint property of a collective of London cloth traders.’

‘So how do we narrow down who chartered the Sydney leg?’

Michael looked at him. ‘Two of them are dead, including Josiah Blake.’

‘How interesting.’ Calvin looked back to the boy. ‘So, we’ve established that the cloth trade isn’t profitable enough for a certain trader and that Mick the Fence is the boss of a coining racket in Sydney?’

‘Wasn’t
me
told you ’bout Mick being the boss!’

‘Then he is?’

‘Bollocks. Aye.’

Calvin took his watch from his coat pocket. ‘It’s getting late. You can stay in tonight, and tomorrow I’m putting you on the first vessel that hauls anchor and you can work your passage to wherever she’s sailing.’

As soon as they were outside, Calvin looked sidelong at Michael. ‘You didn’t tell me this was Mick the Fence’s operation’.

‘I wasn’t entirely sure myself until just recently.’

Calvin grinned slyly. ‘I knew it anyway. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t, would I? I’ve got a watch at the Hare and Hound on the junction road. You can see Mick’s from one of the upstairs rooms.’

Michael shook his head. ‘I thought Mick was too clever to use his own place for business. They’d be in a basement if he is, though, and his is one of the few in the Rocks. If they’re melting down old coin and casting plaster moulds, they’re probably forging guineas – copper on the inside, silver-plated. No point in wasting time on shillings, they wouldn’t make mercantile princes wealthy enough, or give punters a leg up.’

Calvin was listening keenly and nodding. ‘Speaking of punters, I’ve had a word with a man by the name of Wardell, the government agent on the
Rajah
. He says he’s looking into the story the ship’s boy told you, about seeing the botanist on
deck the night of the killing. He also said he’d find out when Reeve’s passage was booked and by whom. It’s unlikely he’s come so far from home without a benefactor.’

‘Now that’s of interest,’ Michael said, ‘because I was just going to ask if you’d care to pay a call to Mr Reeve. I’ve a matter to discuss with him that I think you’d find interesting.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Aye,’ said Michael.

21 October 1841

The light is as dazzling as the sky is cloudless and the temperature constant. This place is the opposite of Ireland in every way. The seasons are reversed, and the south wind colder than the north. Instead of fog and damp, the air is dry and translucent. The poisonous breath of industry has not yet touched it. It is spring but already as warm as our Irish summer. I expect the light and warmth account, in part, for the geniality of people. I spent this morning with Joan, the draper’s wife, who laughed approvingly when I cursed over spilt tea and then offered me a cigarillo after breakfast. I took one, but I’ve still some practising to do before I master smoking.

I bothered Joan with questions all morning, because this place seems so full of contradictions. It is a modern nation in the making, and at the same time an ancient one being ruined. The Originals, as Michael Kelly calls them, are nowhere to be seen. Had I not met Jarrah, I might not have known they were here but for the spirits amongst the trees, watching the foolish empire builders from the shadows. Now I know why the trees seem so ghostly. There are bonechilling stories about the killings, and when I hear of the murderous behaviour of the English and the Irish, I feel ashamed to tread here.

Joan says that oranges can be grown in New South Wales, that she plucked one herself, early in the morning, with the dew still fresh on it. She says she has fat green peas on her table for ten months of the year and that her linen will dry in an hour. But she also has a spider the size of a fob
watch in her pantry, and thieving possums climb in through open windows and help themselves to any food left unattended.

In just three days we will be sailing, and there is plenty to keep me busy. Dan and Joan have found the best priced merino in New South Wales, and I’m gathering stamina to supervise the shipment. Joan says that she will help and that I must not try and do too much too soon. Whenever I feel daunted I think of Antonia. It is faith that makes the difference, be it faith in some deity or an inner light, or in oneself.

I can’t say I’m looking forward to another sea voyage so soon, but it will bear no resemblance to my outward passage. I’ve an entire season’s patterns crowding my thoughts after my long walk, and I intend to fill a book with them before I reach London. If Mr Montgomery won’t buy them for a good price, then they will become the first prints for Mahoney Wool.

Convention be damned.

Houndstooth

Reeve was at least smart enough not to close the door on Calvin and Michael. He still had a purple bruise on his left cheekbone where Michael’s fist had connected with it.

‘Good evening, Mr Reeve,’ said Cal cheerfully.

The botanist merely scowled and turned his back on them, returning to whatever he had been doing. When they followed him into the room he was at his table, scribbling in a book with agitated strokes, his head hung like a sulky child.

‘Just a courtesy call,’ continued Cal, ‘to update you on my enquiry into your suspected criminal activities. I’ve had a conversation with a Mr Wardell. You might remember that he was the Government agent on board the
Rajah
. He seemed to think that you were in the vicinity of Laurence Blake’s cabin on the night he was murdered.’

That had Reeve’s attention. He looked up, worried.

‘Furthermore,’ the policeman continued, sitting himself down in the chair opposite the botanist, ‘he tells me that your passage was paid for with a bankers draft.’

Michael had not known this. He glanced sharply at Calvin who gave him an affirmative nod. The policeman had been doing some snooping around. That was his job, after all. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Michael?’ Calvin asked.

Michael was thinking fast. ‘There is. I’m wondering if whoever paid your passage also paid you to keep an eye on Rhia
Mahoney. I wonder if you were supposed to discover what, if anything, she knew about the death of Josiah Blake. Maybe you thought Rhia had something, a letter perhaps, that your boss wanted. You thought that she’d given it to Laurence Blake for safe keeping. You entered his cabin while he slept, hoping to find it and unwittingly – or witlessly – woke him. He might have grabbed you, you might have picked up the letter knife, intending only to threaten him, not to murder him. Either way, you panicked and killed him.’ Michael was thinking aloud, piecing together all the little details Rhia had told him. ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident, because if word got out that you’d been snooping in a respectable passenger’s cabin, your hopes of station and wealth would have been instantly dashed. You searched his cabin and found the portrait and recognised one of the men in it.’ Michael hadn’t taken his eyes from Reeve, whose own eyes just grew wider and more startled. The open drafting book displayed poorly executed drawings of indigenous flora.

‘Of course I have a patron,’ Reeve said finally, ‘it is essential and normal in my profession. But his identity is a private matter and what you are accusing me of is utter twaddle.’ He didn’t sound convincing, or convinced.

Calvin nodded slowly. ‘
Twaddle
? You’d prefer to move into the barracks, then, than to give us a name? It must be rather a large boodle you stand to lose. You might find, eventually, that freedom is worth more.’

‘I’ve found it priceless myself over the years,’ Michael agreed.

Reeve looked as if he might retch. ‘You’ve not a scrap of evidence and I have nothing more to say.’

‘I don’t need evidence to arrest a man in Sydney, Mr Reeve. And I’ll guarantee you’ll have more to say, once you’ve seen your new accommodation. The idea of a lenient sentence might
seem more appealing in a few days. That’s what we offer here in return for a confession, for
names
. We make our own rules here. Think about that.’

Cal went to the doorway and called out to the two young constables who were waiting in the hallway. Michael watched Reeve. It was clear that he
was
thinking about it, because he had picked up his pencil and was scribbling so hard on his drafting paper that he tore a hole clear through it. When Calvin’s boys walked in – and they
were
boys – eager to have something to do to pass the time, Reeve threw down his pencil, looking piteously sorry for himself.

‘We’ll leave you with your escort, then,’ said Calvin. ‘Don’t worry about strapping his hands, lads, I saw you loading your pistols out in the hallway.’

As they walked back to Macquarie Street, past the Barracks, Calvin shook his head. ‘He’s someone’s lackey and he’s expecting to be saved, I’m certain of it. I’ll hold him on suspicion of murder for a while, until I can coax a confession out of him. It might not take so long before he starts missing his gentlemanly pretensions.’

Michael nodded. He needed a drink. ‘You lot are busy at the moment, aren’t you? Are they still keeping a watch on Mick’s?’

‘They are. I’m not planning on getting too involved, though it’s supposed to be my night off. There’s half a dozen armed men in an upstairs room at the Hare and Hound and my sergeant’s got more boys at the harbour. They’ve been waiting around all week and they’re getting restless. It’s all got to go off soon, unless they’ve managed to sneak past under our noses. We’ve even managed to borrow some of the governor’s soldiers.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to have a jar at the Hare and Hound, would it?’ Michael asked.

Calvin gave a long-suffering sigh, but Michael could tell he didn’t mind the idea.

The Hare and Hound, at the Rocks, was only a street away from Mick the Fence’s pine-board bungalow. They went in the side entrance of the tavern and straight upstairs to one of the front rooms. There were four men sitting at the table eating and smoking, and two at the windows, from where they had a reasonable view of the approach to Mick’s. Calvin had a quiet word with the two on watch before he and Michael left them to it.

The tavern downstairs was as ill lit and dingy as any public house in the Rocks, and the ale coming out of the barrel looked too thin. Rum was a much safer bet. They found a corner where Calvin’s uniform wouldn’t create too much interest and settled to wait.

Michael had been avoiding telling the policeman exactly how imminent his departure was, but he couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. He’d thought about it, of course. He hated goodbyes, and besides Maggie, Calvin was the closest thing to a friend he had in Sydney. Once they were on their second measure of rum he decided it was time.

‘I’ve got a passage as ship’s carpenter on the next one out.’

‘Is that right?’ Calvin was silent for a moment. ‘Well I’ll be bloody damned.’

‘Aye.’

Calvin opened his mouth to say something else, but one of the men from upstairs sidled over to them and jerked his head in the direction of the road.

It was on.

They threw their smokes into the tin on the table and got to their feet silently. Calvin took his pistol from his boot and stuck it in his belt. ‘There’s just nothing like a good raid,’ he
said. ‘You’re welcome to join in, Michael. Think of it as a parting gift.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Why not? I should have remembered that you don’t have nights off.’

Three or four of the Port Authority constables were already under the shadowy overhang of Mick’s front verandah. It took a few minutes for the others to assemble, noiselessly, outside the rickety bungalow. The building was of an almost identical layout to Maggie’s, Michael noted, which was convenient, since he knew where the entrance to the basement would be.

It was agreed that an advance party of four men – Calvin, Michael and the two brawniest constables – would attempt to enter the building quiet as snakes, and spring a surprise on whatever was taking place in the basement. The other half a dozen men were to join them on a signal from Calvin, and were told to keep their firearms in their belts unless otherwise instructed. There had been trouble, recently, with trigger-happy boys who thought a smoking pistol was an accessory to their authority.