by Meg Keneally
‘But I did, Mr Monsarrat. I did kill her. I didn’t mean to, naturally I didn’t. But it was by my hand that she died, and now I feel like cutting it off, were any of the knives in this place sharp enough.’
‘What on earth makes you believe that? And there will be no cutting off of limbs, by the way. I’ll physically restrain you even if Diamond flogs me for it. Tell me what happened, please, so I can show you you’re not culpable.’
‘Well, when Gonville arrived, we went into her room. Her eyes were open, and she was looking at the sunlight coming through the window. She turned and smiled when she saw us, and it looked as though her lips were a little less cracked, although she did have a nasty rash all over her. That’s been there for a while though, and wasn’t getting any worse. She even attempted to sit up as we got closer, but Gonville told her to rest where she was. He began to examine her; he took her pulse, felt her forehead, felt her stomach, asked her never-ending questions about how she was feeling.
‘After you’d gone to fetch him, I put her favourite tea back over the fire. I got it just hot enough so she could have it off a spoon without burning her poor lips. So while he was examining her, I fed her some. After the first spoonful she smiled at me again. It was the third smile that day, after a long time without, and I was gladdened by it. I gave her another spoonful, thinking the tea was doing her the power of good, if it was producing such a smile.
‘So I filled a cup and held it to her lips and she drank it down, so quickly I was worried she might make herself vomit. But she seemed all right, so I settled her back on the pillows and sat with her, held her hand, told her stories of the fairies from my own childhood – only the nice ones; some fairies are anything but nice.
‘After a while, though, I began to worry. She stopped focusing on me, she seemed to be looking at the ceiling, at something I couldn’t see. Then she opened her mouth and drew in a breath which shuddered her whole body, so strong and ragged was it. She glanced at me then, and I could tell she was afraid. I held her hand and squeezed it, but she didn’t squeeze back. She breathed again, and this time she juddered the whole bed while doing it. By now she looked on the verge of panic. And then there was a third breath. It stopped and started as it was going in. Then she released it. It just slowly leaked out of her; she wasn’t making any effort to expel it. And after that, she didn’t take any more breaths.’
Mrs Mulrooney had already purged the screaming, panicked, wild-eyed aspect of her grief. It had exhausted her in its passing, and now that she had told Monsarrat, she seemed to see no more use for herself. Her shoulders sank, and her head lowered to the table. Not in despondency this time, but in exhaustion.
‘God rest her soul,’ said Monsarrat. He felt a loss, probably more than many other losses the small settlement had endured, but he said the words in the same manner that Slattery said ‘God bless all here’.
Mrs Mulrooney had sprawled her arms out across the table. Had he not known it was the gesture of someone who was spent, he would have thought she was trying to claim the table as her own and prevent someone else taking it.
He put one hand over hers, and squeezed her small hand as she had squeezed Honora’s smaller one. ‘I still don’t see,’ he said, ‘how any of this supports the notion that you killed her.’
She put her chin up then, resting it on the table so that only her upper lip was visible above the forearm which screened her mouth. She looked like the elder boy in Monsarrat’s classes in Windor during his brief period of freedom: unable to concentrate, knowing it, resenting it, and masking it by pretending not to care.
‘Of course you do, Mr Monsarrat. You’re just far too polite to say it. Haven’t we been discussing the very same thing between us? Poison. And now what happens? She dies from poisoning. And it was my hand which tipped the poison down her throat.’
‘Surely Dr Gonville can’t for one second believe you responsible.’
‘He certainly didn’t give any indication of it, no, unless by asking you to look after me, he meant to ask you to detain me. But that would be an odd request to make of someone who is themselves detained, if you don’t mind my saying, Mr Monsarrat. What worries me, though, is what others may make of it. Particularly those who may themselves have had a hand in the business, and would be only too happy for the blame to float around and then attach itself to a former convict.’
‘Then we shall ensure that the major’s aware of the extremities to which certain individuals have gone in his absence, and of their interest in his wife. Please, try not to worry. I will make sure that the major knows of the captain’s behaviour, before the captain himself can pour lies into his ear.’
‘I know you’ll do your best, Mr Monsarrat. And I hope you’ll succeed. Because if you don’t, you know as well as I do that I’ll hang.’
BOOK TWO
Chapter 17
Dr Gonville, as it turned out, had made straight for the barracks, to request the use of Monsarrat for the next day or two. Lieutenant Carleton readily agreed. He was genuinely appalled at the death of his commander’s young wife, as well as regretful that it had happened before the major’s return, and on his watch.
And so Monsarrat packed his canvas bag with more than the usual complement of writing gear, anticipating a lengthy period in the hospital.
Dory was gone. Most of the other beds were empty, and Gonville evidently didn’t have a very busy day ahead of him. An elderly lady lay in one bed, the wetness of her cough announcing some kind of lung complaint.
Rounding the partition, Monsarrat noticed that the doctor’s usual energy had been replaced by what looked like a kind of thoughtful torpor. The man sat at his desk, his fingertips touching each other so that his arms formed a triangle, on the apex of which his chin rested. His eyes were focused on nothing at all, or at least nothing which was visible to Monsarrat.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘good, we can get started. Please ready yourself.’
Monsarrat had sat in the doctor’s presence only once before, when he had recently taken some dictation from the man. He did so again now, emptying his bag and laying out all the requisites. Gonville continued to examine an invisible object in the middle distance. Without looking at Monsarrat, he suddenly said, ‘You’re concerned for the housekeeper.’
He had unknowingly just resolved a dilemma which had been troubling Monsarrat. He desperately wanted to ascertain the doctor’s view on Mrs Mulrooney’s culpability or otherwise, while at the same time not wanting to suggest it to the man if the thought hadn’t already occurred to him. But of course the thought had.
‘I must confess, I am. And she herself is distressed. She believes that as the poison was unwittingly administered by her hand, she will be accused of the crime, if a crime there was.’
‘Oh, there most certainly was,’ said the doctor. He went over to his sideboard, and picked up something which Monsarrat hadn’t noticed before – the corpse of a chicken.
‘I took some of the tea that was given to Mrs Shelborne. A fellow called Metzger has invented a most ingenious test for detecting the presence of arsenic; however, I don’t have either the knowledge or the equipment to carry it out, so I had to resort to a blunt instrument. I poured the tea on some grain, and fed the grain to this chicken, not half an hour ago. You can see for yourself the results.’
Monsarrat had known it was a reasonably futile hope that the tea had not been the agent of death. But he was still very worried to have it confirmed. He decided to dispense with caution. The danger Mrs Mulrooney was in was too real for him to worry about causing a slight to someone with power over him. ‘Dr Gonville, Mrs Mulrooney did not do this. She has been holding the lady’s hand through the night for many days now, racking her brains for recipes which might tempt Mrs Shelborne’s appetite, weeping and praying over her. She is not a murderer, particularly not of this person.’
Gonville exhaled sharply in frustration. ‘I know that, man. ’Course I do. Why do you think I have you here?’
‘I unde
rstood, sir, that I was to take dictation of your report on Mrs Shelborne’s death.’
‘You’re going to do a little more than that, Monsarrat. You and I are going to construct things so they allay any concerns the major might have on the point of Mrs Mulrooney’s culpability, without raising the idea for him in the first place. The man has a deep fondness for his wife, and is likely to be somewhat undone by her death and looking to apportion blame.’
So Monsarrat laid out his paper and immersed his pen in the ink, and he and the doctor started the collaborative work of drafting a report which acknowledged that Mrs Mulrooney had fed Mrs Shelborne the poison, while at the same time exculpating her.
Dr Gonville first went through the bare factual details of Honora’s death. He outlined the chicken’s response when fed the tea-soaked grain. He also noted that there was a quantity of arsenic available in the stores, for the purpose of killing rats. He would take the liberty, he said, of sending the major’s Special to ask the storekeeper whether anyone had procured some.
To produce the state that Honora had been in leading up to her death, she would have needed regular doses of the poison, Monsarrat wrote at Gonville’s prompting. Yet the poisoner would be unlikely to want to get too close to his (‘Make sure you use the word “his”, Monsarrat’) weapon – there was some possibility of arsenic being absorbed through the skin, or inhaled, making the poisoner as sick as his victim. So he would have needed to choose a method of administration which did not put him into close contact with the stuff.
With the contents of the doctor’s report agreed to, Monsarrat set about making a fair copy. But Gonville stopped him. ‘I wonder, Monsarrat, if I may ask you for another service.’
‘Of course, doctor,’ said Monsarrat, secretly gratified at Gonville’s pretense that he had an option to refuse.
‘I know you’re friendly with Spring. Go to the stores, if you will, and find out whether anyone has recently picked up some arsenic.’
‘Doctor, I must tell you, I myself procured some recently at Mrs Mulrooney’s urging – she had smelled some mice, you see.’ He knew the declaration might make Gonville look on him with suspicion, given his own frequent presence in the kitchen. But if Gonville chose to examine the store records himself, he would in any case see that Monsarrat had procured the poison.
‘And I dare say you’re not the only one, Monsarrat. Let’s find out who else, eh?’
Monsarrat did as he was told and found the storeman at his desk, polishing his lenses. It was one of Spring’s idiosyncrasies – a sure sign of some upset – that he worked particularly hard to remove spots which only he could see.
‘I’ve been sent by the doctor,’ said Monsarrat, ‘to discuss the matter of arsenic with you.’
‘Was that the cause? The Birpai don’t know what it was. They weren’t overjoyed about her hunting, but they didn’t seek any retribution. There were a number of them up last night, singing a song for her, even though she couldn’t hear.’
Monsarrat didn’t want to start rumours of murder in the camp, and had reason to doubt Spring’s discretion, given the speed with which information made its way to the Birpai. ‘Yes, Gonville thinks it was possibly arsenic. How it got into her system remains a mystery at this stage. But he’s asked me to come and see whether anybody has procured any of the stuff recently.’
Spring finished rubbing his glasses and put them on, jamming them onto the bridge of his nose as if he didn’t trust them to stay in place. He went over to a ledger, opened it and ran his finger down a column, muttering to himself as he did so.
‘Well, there was yourself the other day, of course … and Private Cooper requisitioned some. Apparently the rats over at the barracks are getting big enough to carry off some of the soldiers. Filthy habits they all have, no wonder.’
‘Thank you,’ said Monsarrat. He had no doubt that the young Private Cooper had been sent on his mission by the captain.
When he re-entered the hospital, he saw the doctor was busy applying a salve of some kind to the hands and arms of a man.
Gonville glanced up as Monsarrat entered. ‘Come here, Monsarrat. I sent Donald off on an errand, as I have the use of you for the next day, so you’ll have to be orderly as well as clerk.’ He handed Monsarrat an earthenware jar in which the salve rested, and dipped into it to spread liberal amounts over the man’s wounds.
The man’s eyes had a raw red tinge, as though they had been scrubbed by sandpaper, and his arms and hands were covered in blisters and pustules, with very little unbroken flesh. He winced and occasionally let out a small sound as Gonville rubbed the ointment in.
His condition marked him, to Monsarrat and anyone else who lived in the settlement, as a lime-burner. It was a common jest – though a grim one – in the settlement to say that if you did well on a lime-burning gang, you might get a promotion to a chain gang.
‘This is what we do to our weakest, Monsarrat,’ Gonville said, without looking away from the irreparable skin. ‘This is how we treat our lame. If they can’t cut stone or haul lumber, we sentence them to death by slow burning.’ For only the weakest needed fear a stint as a lime-burner – those who were more robust went to the chained or unchained gangs, depending on their level of criminality. Or they went to the crew which was even now building the settlement’s first church, creating a greater demand for a substance which was slowly devouring their comrades.
Monsarrat was surprised at the doctor’s candour. Gonville was, after all, part of the establishment, and apart from Spring when in his cups, Monsarrat had never heard such an admission from a member of the ruling class.
He wasn’t sure how to respond. Privately, he quite agreed with the doctor. But what if it was a trick, something to draw him out, something to make him reveal a hidden revolutionary seam in his character? He confined himself to a neutral, ‘As you say, doctor.’
The doctor finished attending to the burned man, and sent him back to the convict barracks.
‘I find myself in need of some air, Monsarrat,’ he said. ‘Would you please accompany me down to the river?’
Monsarrat could hardly refuse, and didn’t want to.
The pair walked down Allman Street towards the river and, reaching the banks, went along towards Shoal Arm Creek, which took them past the lime shed, eliciting a grunt from the doctor.
At the mouth of the creek, the doctor paused. ‘Monsarrat, as irregular as this is, I feel I should make you aware of an incident which might yet have some relevance to our current situation. I did not report this event at the time, as there are delicacies involved, and I didn’t know the absolute truth of it. I feel, though, that the time has come for some record to be kept of what transpired. I’d like you to record what I tell you in secrecy for now, and lay it by should you or I need to show it to the major at some future time.’
‘It concerns Captain Diamond?’ Monsarrat asked.
‘Oh, it most certainly does. This happened a year ago, when the major was visiting Rolland’s Plains, overlooking the plantations there. He was gone for a night, perhaps two; you probably recall better than I. And at that time, too, he left Captain Diamond in charge.’
Monsarrat did recall the major’s trip, but had not seen Diamond during the few days he was away.
‘I now wonder whether I should have reported this at the time,’ continued the doctor. ‘But Diamond was silent on the story. I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing him quite so well then as I do now. I reasoned that the major would be back soon, and it was best not to cause upheaval in such a small place. In any case, Diamond is very good at earning the trust of those whom he deems important. And he has the major’s trust. Best, I thought, to leave it alone.’
The doctor paused, allowing Monsarrat to absorb a justification for actions he didn’t yet understand.
‘So,’ continued the doctor, ‘the incident centred around the family of a convict called Mercer, an older fellow. His first sentence was for receiving stolen goods, and his second was for publ
ic drunkenness. But he was harmless, and he’d shown application while he was here.’
Monsarrat remembered the man. Quiet and industrious.
‘He had two daughters. The older one, I think she was about sixteen, was a well-favoured girl. In fact, she looked a little like Mrs Shelborne. Her father was very sensible to the need to protect his daughter’s virtue. The girls’ mother had died, so they were living with him here, and because he’d behaved well since his arrival he was allowed a small house to live with them in.
‘One night, Diamond sneaked into the girl’s house. He had been courtly to her up to that point, when they met at prayers and so on, more so than you’d expect from an officer to the daughter of a convict. I’d noticed it, but just put it down to the strangeness this place works on people. I would never have dreamed that he would go as far as he did – walking into the house while all were asleep, and lying down in the girl’s bed with her.
‘She woke up and started screaming. Her father came into the room. It was dark, and I don’t think he would have been cognisant of who was lying in his daughter’s bed, but I doubt it would have mattered in any event. He grabbed Diamond by the collar, held him against a wall and then dragged him to the door and gave him a shove, sending him stumbling into the doorframe. It was only when Diamond turned around that Mercer saw who had intruded. I think he must’ve been a little frightened then, but any fear would have been secondary to the outrage he felt. He yelled at Diamond to leave his daughter alone, that he didn’t care who he was, he would report him to the major on his return.’
‘The major would most assuredly not have approved,’ said Monsarrat. ‘But as you say, Diamond has his trust. Perhaps he would have put it down to a tale spun by a convict trying to cause trouble.’
‘Perhaps,’ said the doctor, ‘but the young lady woke half the settlement with her screams. You must have heard it yourself, Monsarrat. The man lived near the Specials’ cottages.’