‘I don’t recall any such heated discussion. I may have perhaps had a passing word with a gentleman about transport to New South Wales. I suppose that may have been him. He’s an escaped convict? How has he been in the area for a month now without having been caught?’
The sergeant’s jaw went tight, not enjoying having the interview turned back on him. His failure to capture an escaped prisoner was clearly a sore point. ‘I’ll ask you again, Mr Fairweather. Where were you yesterday between midnight and eight in the morning?’
‘He was with me, of course,’ Pru answered quickly.
The sergeant didn’t look convinced. ‘Unless you can provide a better alibi than that, I’m afraid you are going to have to come down to the station until we can get this sorted out.’
‘Am I under arrest?’ Jack asked, handing Henry across to Pru when he grizzled.
‘A gentleman saw you leave the Duchess of Kent Hotel that morning,’ Carmichael said. ‘You need to come to the station and see if the witness recognises you.’
‘Plenty of people come and go from that hotel,’ Jack said with an easy shrug.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Pru argued. ‘As you just heard, Jack was with me. He couldn’t have killed this person.’
‘Of course it’s a mistake.’ Jack waved it off.
‘A wife’s testimony doesn’t hold much sway, ma’am,’ Carmichael said.
In a panic now as the men led Jack to the door, Pru blurted, ‘He didn’t kill anyone. It was me.’
‘Pru! Be quiet!’
‘It’s very noble of you to try to save your husband, Mrs Fairweather. But no witnesses saw you entering the hotel.’
‘Can we have a minute, Carmichael?’
The Sergeant hesitated. ‘Don’t run, Mr Fairweather. It only makes you look more guilty.’
Jack snorted out a laugh. ‘I have no intention of running. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Sergeant Carmichael and the constable moved outside, but didn’t close the front door.
Jack ran his hand over Henry’s soft hair and spoke in a low voice to Pru. ‘It will be okay. It’s just a misunderstanding.’
‘Is it possible someone saw you leaving the hotel?’
‘It’s possible. I was there twice, after all. Don’t worry, I’ll be back here before you know it. But just in case? Call Harold Renstein. He’s a good lawyer.’
‘Lawyer?’ Pru asked breathlessly.
Jack kissed Henry’s head and then Pru’s forehead and lips.
‘Please don’t worry, love.’ He winked. ‘They won’t come near you.’
She frowned and then gasped. ‘You still don’t believe I didn’t shoot Viktor, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t go to gaol for anyone else,’ he said, and kissed her soundly on the mouth before she could protest anymore.
‘Gaol?’ Even whispering the word made her feel ill.
‘Harold Renstein,’ Jack repeated, as he headed for the door. ‘You’ll find him at widow Barnett’s boarding house in Ballarat. Or Miss Lola’s.’
Pru screwed up her nose. ‘And where will I find you?’
‘Ballarat holding I suspect, for now,’ he told her. ‘Don’t worry love, everything will be fine.’
***
‘Everything will be fine,’ Pru huffed out a week later, as she sat wringing her hands in the Ballarat courtroom. Everything was not fine. It was far from fine. The witness hadn’t hesitated to point out Jack amongst the miscreants he shared his cell with, and he’d been kept in the holding cells for a week while the police and the prosecution pieced together their case against him for the shooting of Viktor Petrovic.
Despite the courtroom being half filled with people, Pru sat in a row by herself. Alone. She felt so alone. She’d left Henry with Katie, but Bobby had promised he would be in court to support her. As she waited, she let her eyes wander around the building, trying to keep herself calm. The high ceilings, lofty and elaborate with their moulded cornices, gave the room a cavernous feel. A long, dark wooden table, intricately carved, sat at the front of the room and served as the judge’s bench. It was quite the opulent set up for a country courtroom.
Jack had been ordered to stand trial for the murder of Viktor. He was throwing himself on his own sword in a misguided effort to save her. She was sure he still believed she had killed Viktor, and was refusing to give himself an alibi in case they came after her instead.
Bobby dropped down on the wooden chair beside her, making her jump and bringing her attention back to the here and now.
‘He’s being a stubborn arse,’ she murmured to Bobby.
‘Stubborn,’ Bobby nodded. ‘You’re a matched pair.’
She glowered at him and his lips curled. ‘Want me to break him out of holding?’
‘Think you can?’ she asked, playing along.
Bobby shrugged a shoulder. ‘Easy.’
She smiled for what seemed like the first time in days. He probably could do it, would do it, if she gave him the go ahead.
She exhaled heavily. ‘Jack didn’t do this. He didn’t kill Viktor.’
‘You say that like you’re not really sure,’ Bobby said, studying her closely.
She stayed quiet.
‘If you don’t believe he’s innocent, Pru, what chance does he have? Jack’s no killer. He’s never so much as shot a gun at anyone.’
‘Neither have you, Bobby,’ she met his eyes. ‘But what would you do if someone came after Katie? Threatened her?’
He had no answer to that, but she knew he’d kill for Katie. Just as she knew Jack would kill for her and Henry.
As the jury were brought in, she made a study of every single man, trying to determine whether they may be sympathetic towards Jack. Surely they wouldn’t judge a man for killing an escaped convict like Viktor. But murder was murder—and Jack had made some enemies in the business world too. She only hoped none of those enemies sat amongst the jury and held the fate of her husband in their hands.
Overwhelming relief enveloped her when Jack was brought in. He looked tired and a smattering of rusty stubble had grown to shadow his jaw. It reminded her of how he’d looked when he’d been shot and laid up in bed for weeks. She swallowed down the fear at the memory. And here they were again—his life in danger, and her waiting to see if he would live or die. Would their trials never end?
He sat at a table beside Harold and turned back to smile and wink at her. How dare he grin that Devil’s grin at her now with what he was putting her through? He was refusing to speak. Refusing to give any alibi that might save his own life. Her fear gave way to anger as her mind went over all the “what ifs”. What if he had simply turned Viktor into the police? The man was a dangerous prison escapee. Would he have turned Jack in as well though? Would the police believe that Jack Fairweather, Ballarat businessman, had been a bushranger in another life? She couldn’t discount it, considering the sergeant’s suspicions, and all the accusations that had been flying around about Fairweather Transport and its possible involvement in highway robberies. Oh, why had Jack insisted on going after Viktor?
‘All rise,’ an officer of the court called. ‘Judge James Collins presiding.’
Everyone in the court stood.
James Collins? Prudence frowned. How did she know that name?
She saw Jack slump a little as he sat back down, and she remembered. He was the man who had accused Fairweather Transport all those months ago of being complicit after bushrangers had bailed him up on the Melbourne Road and stole most of his belongings.
‘Oh Lord.’
She could see the hint of satisfaction on the judge’s face as he looked directly at Jack. He knew exactly who he was. Jack would never get a fair trial now.
‘So gentlemen,’ the judge began, taking a seat behind the wooden desk. ‘Who are we today?’
‘Arthur Randall, Crown Prosecutor, Your Honour.’ A man as round as a bowling ball stood behind a table on the right side of the courtroom. ‘The defendant, Jack Fairweather
, is committed to stand trial on the charge of the wilful murder of one Viktor Petrovic.’
‘Harold Renstein for Mr Jack Fairweather, Your Honour. I do not wish to waste the court’s time with this farcical trial accusing my client, a reputable businessman, of murdering an escaped convict.’
‘I assume the prosecution has evidence to support the charge?’
‘We do, Your Honour,’ Mr Randall answered the judge.
‘Then we have reason to continue with this “farcical trial”, Mr Renstein.’ Judge Collins crossed glances again with Jack. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Mr Randall, call your witness.’
‘The Prosecution calls Mr Richard Wellsley.’
Pru watched the man walk to the front of the courtroom and take a seat in the small wooden chair beside the judge’s table.
Mr Randall stood and walked around the courtroom, strutting like a peacock. Even if he hadn’t been trying to put her husband in prison, Pru would have disliked him immediately.
Taking a deep breath in through his nose, he puffed out his chest, projecting his voice to the rafters. ‘Mr Wellsley, you were staying at the Duchess of Kent Hotel on the night of Sunday the fourteenth of September?’
‘I was.’
‘Please tell the court what occurred on the morning after, the morning of the fifteenth.’
‘I was in the dining room with several other gentlemen having breakfast when we heard a gunshot.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘A little before seven-thirty, I believe.’
‘Go on, Mr Wellsley, what did you, and the two gentlemen you were with, do when you heard the gunshot?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Mr Randall questioned, faux shock in his voice and expression.
‘Well, it was the Duchess of Kent, sir,’ Mr Wellsley said with a light shrug and a grimace. People in the courtroom chuckled, understanding exactly what he meant. ‘I mean, it’s not uncommon to hear gunshots in the vicinity. It’s hardly a reputable place, and being so close to the Eureka gold-mining leads, well, men fire off shots at claim jumpers and thieves day and night.’
‘But you said you saw someone leaving the hotel in haste,’ the Prosecutor pushed.
‘I walked to the window that looks out over the rear of the hotel, thinking I’d perhaps see where the shot came from.’ Wellsley nodded.
‘And what did you see?’
‘I saw a man in a bowler hat, moving quickly away from the rear entrance of the hotel and to the stables. He disappeared inside and I didn’t see him again. It didn’t seem unusual to me at the time, but when they found the dead man upstairs, I thought perhaps the fleeing man might have had something to do with it.’
‘And is the man you saw in court today?’
‘He is,’ Wellsley said and pointed at Jack. ‘That man there.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wellsley,’ the Prosecutor grinned at the judge. ‘I am finished with the witness, Your Honour.’
Pru took a deep breath. The prosecution had a good case, but it was hardly conclusive. Just because Mr Wellsley had seen Jack didn’t mean he had shot Viktor. Harold was a smart barrister, and knew this too.
‘Your cross-examination, Mr Renstein,’ the judge instructed.
‘Thank you, Your Honour.’ Harold stood and walked towards the witness.
‘Mr Wellsley, you say you saw a man wearing a hat leaving the Duchess of Kent Hotel at almost half seven in the morning?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You were also wandering about the hotel at that time, so actually it could have been you who shot Viktor Petrovic.’
‘As I said, I was in the dining room with three other gentlemen when the gunshot rang out. The men saw me.’
‘Men who aren’t here today to corroborate your story.’ Harold was quick to point out. ‘It’s your word against my client’s, Mr Wellsley.’
He let that hang for moment as he picked up a piece of paper from his table. ‘Viktor Petrovic was shot twice. The doctor who examined Mr Petrovic discovered two different types of bullets, from two different guns. You could have shot him earlier that morning and the second shot came from another of Mr Petrovic’s enemies. He had quite a lot of them, I understand.’
Feeling ill, Pru swallowed hard. She’d been the one to put that second shot into Viktor. If he hadn’t already been dead when she’d accidentally squeezed the trigger, it would be her standing trial for his murder now.
‘I never met the man.’ Mr Wellsley shrugged. ‘I would have no reason to kill him.’ Pru noticed he was completely unperturbed by Harold’s grilling questions. She knew that all Harold had to do was discredit this witness and Jack would go free.
‘Mr Fairweather had no reason to kill him either,’ Harold added. ‘But you seem to think he did because you saw a man in a bowler hat leaving the rear of the hotel.’
‘He was moving quickly, running from something,’ Wellsley said.
‘Perhaps he was rushing to get home to his wife,’ Harold suggested. ‘A gentleman cheating on his wife and fleeing his lover’s hotel bed in the early hours of the morning is not a crime.’
There were chuckles about the courtroom from other men and Pru cringed. It wasn’t the sweetest form of defence, but she didn’t care. As long as it gave Jack an alibi.
Harold walked over to his chair and lifted up a bowler hat. ‘Is this the hat you saw the man wearing?’
Pru held her breath. It was Jack’s. And, yes, he had been wearing it the morning they had seen Viktor at the Duchess of Kent.
‘Yes,’ Mr Wellsley said with a nod. ‘I recall it was not a hat I had seen many men wear.’
Pru’s teeth ground together. Blast Jack and his insistence on staying at the forefront of fashion.
‘Really?’ Harold asked, looking surprised. ‘Do you not follow the latest trends, Mr Wellsley?’
‘I spend much of my time on the road, Mr Renstein,’ Mr Wellsley said.
Harold looked shocked. ‘Are you a bushranger, sir?’
The man looked offended. ‘No. I am a travelling stock salesman. I don’t spend a lot of time in cities.’
‘But you do not need to go to the city. Why, these hats are for sale right here in Ballarat, in our own Criterion store,’ Harold explained. ‘In fact, this is my hat, not Mr Fairweather’s.’
There were more murmurs from the crowd.
‘Gentlemen in the courtroom,’ Harold turned to face the gallery. ‘Who here owns one of these new bowler-style hats?’
At least five men stood and held up their bowler hats. Pru had never seen anyone other than Jack wear this type of hat and she certainly hadn’t seen it for sale in the Criterion store. Although, she’d bet money that when they left the courtroom, the store would mysteriously have changed its window dressing to include the latest in bowler hats out of Melbourne. Harold Renstein may have had a thing for the loose women of Miss Lola’s, but he was a magician in the courtroom. Pru began to see light at the end of the dark tunnel she’d been in the last week while she’d awaited Jack’s trial.
‘So it seems your statement about seeing a man in an unusual hat doesn’t hold much water, Mr Wellsley.’
‘It was dark, but I did see his face.’
‘You just said it was dark. How can you be so sure the man you saw was Mr Jack Fairweather?’
Wellsley shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘I can’t be a hundred per cent certain. But I am pretty sure it was him. It was his hat.’
‘We’ve just determined the amount of bowler hats currently being worn in Ballarat, sir.’
‘But—’
Harold cut him off. ‘Thank you. No further questions.’
It wasn’t ironclad, but Pru hoped Harold had thrown enough doubt into the witness’s story to make the jury think twice, although the looks on their faces didn’t fill Pru with much hope.
The judge banged his gavel. ‘It’s late in the day. I suggest we recess until tomorrow morning. Take the defendant back to holding.’
Pru reached out to take Jack’s hand before he was led away. She was exhausted—physically and emotionally. She hadn’t slept well since Jack had been arrested. Worry and panic kept her awake half the night, and Henry kept her awake the other half. Which reminded her, she needed to get back to Katie at the hotel and pick him up, but first she needed to see Jack.
***
The far-off squeak and groan of the main holding-cell gate opening was followed swiftly by whistles and lewd comments from his incarcerated neighbours. But Jack didn’t bother to move from his uncomfortable wooden slab, with its thin mattress that served as a bed. He’d slept in worse places in his younger years. The ground usually, back when he’d started bushranging. He thought back to those early days. They’d been hard days. But they’d given him a good life eventually. Until now. Would he do anything differently?
He sighed. How could he wish he’d done things differently, when bushranging had brought him …
‘Jack.’
‘Pru?’ He stood and moved to the bars, reaching through to take her hands. ‘How are you? How’s Henry?’
‘He misses his daddy,’ she said, leaning her head against the bars. ‘We both miss you.’
He sighed again, closing his eyes. A week now he’d been sequestered in this cell, waiting to hear his fate. No one would touch Pru. Their son needed her. Whether she killed Viktor or not, Jack still wasn’t completely sure. Was she even capable of murder? It didn’t matter. A witness had seen him at the Duchess of Kent. No one had seen Pru. So he would do everything in his power to keep her from harm. He’d had a lot of time to think about things, alone, in his small box. And he’d come to a hard decision. And it was time to put his plans in motion.
Opening his eyes again, he held her hands tightly in his.
‘I need you to do something for me, Pru.’
‘Anything, Jack. You know that.’ She had that determined look in her eye, but she looked tired, too. This was going to be hard on both of them. ‘Anything that will help get you out of here.’
‘I won’t be getting out of here.’
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