by Meg Keneally
Michael Crotty had sold the questionable stuff for some years, finding the rewards more substantial than those associated with labouring. While being unlicensed meant that he attracted a less refined class of person, it also meant no one was looking over his shoulder to examine the drink he served and where he got it. Barrels appeared at his house, but no one recalled seeing him down at the docks negotiating with the masters of newly arrived ships.
When Monsarrat entered Crotty’s parlour, he realised he was the only one with a cravat, the only one with a pearl waistcoat, the only one who looked like he’d spent the day indoors. And the place certainly didn’t appear the type of establishment an indoor person would frequent. It didn’t look like an establishment at all, actually. There was no bar, no shelves of glasses. A few barrels, a few worn seats. Two men dressed in canvas and soiled neckerchiefs sitting cross-legged on the floor playing dice. And Crotty, ferrying drinks in earthenware cups from the other room.
When he saw Monsarrat, he put cups in the hands of two of his customers without taking his eyes off the stranger.
‘Invitation only,’ he said as he strode up. ‘And you don’t have one.’
There must be a reasonable amount of money to be made in the semi-legal public house industry, thought Monsarrat, judging by the man’s girth – not rotund, but certainly not malnourished. Bald, although by the looks of his skin probably prematurely. This was a man who looked as though he’d spent a significant proportion of his life outside – the dark-brown splotches on his pale cheek testified to that – yet the sun hadn’t gouged the deep lines in his face which Monsarrat saw on those who had served their sentence on a road gang.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I gained a few extra shillings last night, you see. Thought I’d see if I could make them go further here than somewhere like the Caledonia Inn. But I didn’t realise it was a private club, so I’ll leave you.’
As he turned to the door, Crotty grabbed his arm. The grip was surprisingly strong, almost painful.
‘As you’re here, I’ll get you a drink. You’re not to bring anyone else, nor tell anyone. But you may spend your winnings here.’
He gestured Monsarrat to a stool in the corner with slightly uneven legs. For a moment Monsarrat assessed the other patrons, all ticket-of-leave labourers, by the looks of them. The unfriendly stares he received in return convinced him to keep his eyes down.
Crotty came back with a cup, holding out his hand for payment before giving it to Monsarrat. He deposited a few shillings on Crotty’s palm but the man showed no sign of moving off. He watched as Monsarrat took a swig. He stood by, bottle in hand, as if he wanted a flattering appraisal of his liquor. Monsarrat detested rum – always had – but was willing to make the sacrifice.
‘Odd. It doesn’t taste like the Caledonia’s stuff,’ he said. ‘A bit more … watery.’
‘If you’re going to be casting doubt on my grog, you’ll have to leave.’
‘I’m sorry, I meant no offence. I just wondered, that’s all. Perhaps you have a different supplier.’
‘My suppliers are no concern of yours. But if there were any problems with the rum – which there are not – recent events would have seen them dealt with. I’ll leave it at that, except to say that if you wish to return, you’ll pay and drink in silence.’
Monsarrat nodded, downed the rum and ordered another, hoping it was indeed watered – he had no wish to be admonished by Mrs Mulrooney for returning home drunk.
Though he didn’t think there was anything more to learn here, he bought a third cup to maintain the fiction of a lucky gambler after cheap grog. As he drank it, unable to stop himself wincing, one of the dice players turned to him. ‘You can try your luck with us, if you want to buy more of the muck. It’s not so bad. Better than the swill he’s been getting in recently.’
‘Really? The rum’s improved lately?’
‘It had to – people weren’t coming. If they want muddy water, they can get that in plenty elsewhere. But he said he’d deal with it, and when Crotty says he will deal with something, he tends to do it. There are other attractions, too. Crotty allows … well, I will simply say that those with goods they wish to sell without troubling the troopers are welcome here. So … are you gaming, or not?’
‘I’m sorry but I spent the last of my money on that rum.’
‘No matter. Next time, come with a heavier purse. It would be an honour to play with a man of your … distinction.’ The man laughed, and in his throat it was a mirthless, predatory sound.
Monsarrat stood, nodded (a gesture that made the man laugh again) and walked to the door. Crotty was standing in front of it, his arms folded, but he moved aside as Monsarrat approached, opening the door and giving a mock bow. He followed Monsarrat out, and Monsarrat felt a momentary prickle, a constriction of the lungs, the same tensing of the muscles that had preceded the beatings he’d been given on the road gang.
Crotty made no move though. He stood leaning against the doorframe, watching as Monsarrat unsteadily navigated the ruts and bandicoot holes which lay between him and the safety of his kitchen.
Chapter 12
‘He’s not at home, I have no knowledge of where he is or when he’ll be back.’
Hannah started closing the door, but Sophia did not turn to leave. She stood on the threshold of the cottage, staring at Hannah. A cold, steady gaze. She seemed unaffected by the heavy heat which was making many women wilt in their long, restrictive gowns. The unadorned yard and unrestrained scrub beyond the cool blue of Sophia’s dress, her pristine appearance, looked somehow shameful. The effect was almost disconcerting, or would have been had Hannah cared for the opinions of the likes of the Stark woman.
‘So I’ll be saying goodnight now,’ Hannah said.
Sophia put her hand out, palm against the door’s rough wooden face. ‘I told you, I haven’t come for him.’
‘Oh. Our last conversation was so engaging, you’d like another?’
‘I have recently come by knowledge of a certain matter. It concerns Mr Monsarrat, it concerns me, but mostly it concerns you. Of course, I would be happy to take this knowledge back to the Prancing Stag with me and lay it before Mr Monsarrat tomorrow morning.’
So Hannah found herself inviting Sophia into the kitchen rather than the parlour. She had never thought to admit the creature into the place she thought of as hers, although her name did not appear on the deed of the house. But the kitchen was where she felt strongest, and there was an air of satisfaction about Sophia which made Hannah believe she would need strength.
It was a pity, having to deal with this awkward visitor. And after such a fraught day.
Sophia wasn’t the first woman Hannah had sat across from since the sun rose. Although Hannah would hardly have believed it possible, Henrietta Church had eventually regained sufficient control to haul herself upright at the table of the superintendent’s residence, and that morning Rebecca Nelson had brought Hannah in to meet Mrs Church, asked if she’d be kind enough to sit with the woman again, perhaps tidy up a little bit.
Henrietta Church’s face was almost as slack as it had been the other day. Her muscles did not seem to see any point in arranging her face into an expression of welcome, a scowl, or anything approximating a reaction.
‘You’re a new woman,’ Mrs Church had asserted, her voice rasping from lack of use, after Mrs Nelson had left to check on Lizzie.
‘I’m not an inmate. I’m helping Mrs Nelson.’
‘What happened to Bossy Bulmer?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Church. I just know she’s not involved in the Ladies’ Committee anymore. I’m assisting Mrs Nelson while my employer looks into the murder of your husband.’
There was cruelty in mentioning the murder so baldly and Hannah chastised herself, making the sign of the cross in hope of forgiveness from both the Almighty and the woman at the table.
‘I’m very sorry to hear of your husband’s death, Mrs Church. Mrs Nelson has asked me to do anything
I can to help you today.’
‘Are you any good at making tea?’
‘If you have leaves, I’ll make the best cup of tea you’ve ever had.’
The leaves were tolerable. They were in a cheaply made chest which had let in a small amount of moisture, but not enough to fully destroy them.
‘Have you anything stronger for it?’ Henrietta asked.
‘Now, forgive me for being blunt, Mrs Church, but it’s my way, you know. I watched over you while you slept the other day. And, to be honest with you, I don’t think anything stronger would do you any good. You’re going to need a clear head. Difficult days ahead, of course – a new widow – and who’s to say whoever killed your husband won’t come after you?’
Cruelty again. I must stop this, Hannah thought, before it starts to come easily. But this time there was a purpose. The woman’s reaction, particularly to the idea her husband’s killer might not have finished his or her work, could be instructive.
‘Difficult times ahead, as you say,’ Henrietta said, her authoritative tone diminished somewhat by the tremble in her voice. ‘All the more reason for some assistance.’
‘Not the kind of assistance you have in mind. There could have been a kangaroo bouncing around in here the other day and you’d never have known it. See how you go with the tea, that’s my advice. I’ll make you some shortbread, if you’ve the butter, flour and sugar.’
Mrs Church inclined her head to the left. ‘Go to the store. Ask them for what you need, tell them it’s my request. They won’t begrudge a grieving widow.’
So Hannah did as she was asked, the storekeeper raising his eyes when he knew the request was from Mrs Church.
‘Butter and sugar and flour, if you like. Don’t bother asking me for anything else though – anything that comes in a barrel.’
Henrietta hadn’t moved when Hannah got back. Good, she thought. She’d been half-concerned that Henrietta had some rum stashed away and was sending Hannah on the errand as an opportunity to ferret it out.
‘I wish I could do more for you at such a difficult time,’ Hannah said as she got a mixing bowl and started on the shortbread. ‘But tea and shortbread are the extent of my powers, so that will have to do.’
‘I need nothing from you in terms of consolation, although tea and shortbread I will take.’
‘Gracious of you, missus. Ah, but to think someone with the strength to do the terrible thing that was done to your poor dear husband – to think someone like that is at large, possibly outside the door now. You should not be alone.’
‘I am perfectly safe, thank you,’ Mrs Church said.
‘But how can you be sure?’
‘I can be sure.’
Hannah was unable to provoke her into further discussion that morning, on the reason for her certainty or on any other topic. And now the afternoon had put Hannah across the table from another woman who seemed equally confident in her position.
After she and Sophia had sat in silence for a few minutes, Sophia’s eyes lighting on one object after another, Hannah rose and said, ‘Well this has been quite a lovely visit, but I must be about getting Mr Monsarrat’s supper. I do not know when he will be returning, but I imagine he will be hungry when he does.’
She searched for a skillet which could be trusted not to let itself get dented.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ said Sophia.
‘I’d be worried about you if you didn’t.’
‘I don’t mean supper. I mean the remarks to him, the asides, the suggestions that I am interested in marrying him only as long as no better prospect is available.’
‘What I say, to whom, is of no concern of yours, and nor is it your right to tell me to stop.’
‘But stop you will if you wish to keep his friendship and your position. Mr Monsarrat is a man of integrity, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what would he think of a friend who had been concealing something fundamental about herself – do you not think his regard might be reduced somewhat?’
Hannah left the stove, sat down again. ‘Miss Stark, there are a few things that I feel I need to make very clear to you. The first is that I did not set out to be your enemy; however, your rudeness when we met, and your refusal to do anything since to atone for it, has made my enmity inevitable.
‘The second is this: Mr Monsarrat and I had to support each other in Port Macquarie, particularly towards the end, when we watched one of our friends hang for the murder of another, of whom we were very fond. Nothing you say will make him change his view about me.’
Sophia smiled. ‘Some old secrets lie beneath the earth for a long time, gaining in strength. They grow through concealment, until they become so powerful they simply beg to be revealed.’
Old secrets … There was no way Sophia could know. ‘You recall I told you of my friendship with the clerk at the colonial secretary’s office,’ Sophia continued. ‘Well, I asked him, recently, if he’d be kind enough to look for any records in which you were mentioned.’
It wasn’t possible, Hannah thought, for the malignancy to cross such a vast ocean. It was to stay in Ireland and starve, not slither under the waves to reach her here. It cost her significant effort to keep her face neutral, but her stomach felt full of boiling liquid, and panic buzzed in her ears.
‘Did you know, Mrs Mulrooney, that about twenty years ago there was a census of the marital status of convict women? Quite extraordinarily detailed.’
‘Well, my understanding is that it was wide of the mark, in many respects,’ said Hannah. The statement was delivered in a calm voice, for which she was absurdly grateful.
‘That may be true, I suppose,’ said Sophia. ‘Would you believe, the charming Reverend Bulmer was responsible for compiling it, and where there was no marriage certificate, he put women down as concubines or unmarried.’
‘Concubines!’ Mrs Mulrooney said. ‘Are we in France, now, I ask you.’
Briefly a smile passed between the two women, until their mutual mistrust reasserted itself.
‘Nevertheless, a lot of people set a reasonable amount of store by this document,’ said Sophia. ‘Particularly as the Reverend Bulmer has interesting ways of ensuring people give credence to his views.’
This, of course, was true – Hannah had no trouble believing that the reverend would use the pulpit to condemn anyone who questioned any statement he chose to make.
‘And interestingly there is a Hannah Mulrooney listed in this document. Same year of transportation – my friend at the colonial secretary’s office cross-checked it against your other records – and a son the same age as yours, who shares a name with your son.’
Of course there was, Hannah thought. There she had been, two decades ago. Another woman in the same body, two years left to serve on her sentence, taking on extra piecework in addition to her housekeeping duties to pay for an education for her son.
‘The only real difference between you and that Hannah Mulrooney,’ said Sophia, ‘is the honorific. You see, that Hannah Mulrooney went by Miss, not Mrs. Because that Hannah Mulrooney had never been married.’
The house was dark when Monsarrat came home. He forced down a small spasm of irritation. Not only did he not feel quite himself after his unaccustomed consumption of three cups of rum, watered or otherwise, but he was disappointed – he had been hoping Mrs Mulrooney would be up: he wanted to share his observations before they became hazed by sleep.
He made his way towards his small wooden bed, in a room almost as sparsely furnished as his convict hut at Port Macquarie had been, though he no longer had to sleep on the floor. He was drunk, to be honest, so he nearly missed the light leaking underneath the back door.
He went through into the kitchen and there was Mrs Mulrooney at the kitchen table. Something was not quite right, though. He cast around his mind trying to work out what it was, thickets of rum fumes and tendrils of nausea impeding him, until he realised. She wasn’t moving. Not at all. He had rarely seen her completel
y still, except in moments of great despondency. She had not done so much as turn around when he walked in.
He rounded the table, sat down opposite her.
‘By the Blessed Virgin, you smell awful,’ she said.
‘It will be the rum, no doubt. I’m not used to it. Suspect I’ll pay tomorrow, but visiting a shebeen without drinking would have marked me out even more than doing so dressed like a clerk. It is awful stuff, though. I’ll need gallons of your tea to wash it out.’
‘And I shall make you gallons, before I leave.’
‘You’re going to the Factory tomorrow again? To Mrs Nelson?’
‘No. I don’t know where I’m going. I hope I can rely on you for a reference, though.’
‘Were you ever to need one, it would be the most glowing possible, and I would use my best hand to do it. But you have a position, Mrs Mulrooney. Here. Why in God’s name would you be talking about leaving?’
Mrs Mulrooney inhaled, straightened up, and finally looked directly at him.
‘I am offering you my resignation, Mr Monsarrat. And I hope you’ll do me the kindness of accepting it.’
Monsarrat braced his hands against the table, pushing his chair back and standing up.
‘I most assuredly will not! Nothing on earth would induce me to. You are not a ridiculous person. Stop behaving in this ridiculous fashion.’
‘Ah, but I’m not being ridiculous. When you hear the reason, I’ve no doubt you’ll be at the Female Factory tomorrow seeking an assigned convict to make your tea in my place.’
‘I will not. Absolutely not.’
‘Not even were I to tell you I’ve been lying to you since we first met?’
‘You’re the most honest person I know. Painfully so, sometimes. Don’t scowl like that, Mrs Mulrooney, you know the truth when you hear it.’
‘Yes, I do. And the truth is, Mr Monsarrat, that I have never been married. Mulrooney was the name I was born with.’
Chapter 13