I avoided Nanny and lurked around the kitchen all morning. It turned out that Papa had gotten himself fully liquored up at The Tub of Blood. He’d then paid about twenty ne’er-do-wells to come back with him to Appletorte, specifically to chop, vandalise and burn every apple tree my mother had planted and nurtured. It was breathlessly whispered that during the orgy of violence and arson, two locals had been crushed by the gnarled apple tree they were trying to chop down and another pisspot was severely burnt when he doused a smouldering apple tree with kerosene. Nobody died but a further seven drunks were treated by Dr Dual for burns, lacerations and broken bones. By Wolfftown’s standards that made the evening something of a social success.
After the fire, all our dirty laundry was vigorously aired and made public. Soon even I knew that my father had been cuckolded by a suave English bloke called, Big Dick Beaumont. It spread like wildfire across town and country that my mother, Rose Torte, was an adulteress, a strumpet and an alleged murderess.
When I look back now, I realise that the arson attack marked the beginning of my father’s descent to hell. He was forced into giving up all pretence of being unconcerned about the rumours concerning his wife’s infidelity and alleged criminality. Alain Torte’s mask fell off giving the lie to his laconic manner and he stood revealed in front of the whole of Wolfftown. For the fire was an open declaration that despite his reputation as a keen womaniser, he’d always been deeply in love with the former Rose Kane.
But now that Rose had done him wrong he was going to get even with the world. And woe betide anyone who was stupid enough to stand in his way.
3
CHIFFONADE OF MISERY
During my nocturnal outings with Ned I’m heavily veiled, lest law-abiding citizens take fright at the murderess in their midst. Because Ned keeps the horses moving at a cracking pace, we frequently startle those loitering on street corners or spooning in darkened doorways. We must be quite a sight with me trussed up like a black Egyptian mummy sharing the carriage with Ned’s two black dogs. They’re mongrels; highly intelligent and trained by Ned to attack on command. The dogs and I have so much black in our costumes that we verily melt into the night. And all that can be seen of Ned is the white of his eyeballs.
As we drive through Wolfftown under cover of darkness, I discreetly peer through household windows and spy on ordinary people going about their business. It makes me ache with yearning. Oh for a normal life. Families eating supper, shop keepers giving their counters a final wipe, young blades getting ready for the theatre and brawny sailors vying for the attention of courtesans at Lady Viola Balcombe’s Riding School. I often see Viola Balcombe on the balcony with her girls, her thoroughbreds as she calls them. She’s my closest female friend and visits me here at the gaol most days. Sometimes Viola brings me a new thoroughbred and I teach her a few smutty French phrases to spice up her seduction skills. Gentlemen like that sort of thing, it makes them feel cosmopolitan. We imbibe several glasses of champagne, the courtesans tell me their life stories and we have a few laughs at the expense of Viola’s clientele. I enjoy the company of whores because they tend to have a marvellous sense of humour. No doubt it’s an essential character trait for their chosen profession.
Languishing here in prison means I’ve got endless hours in which to pursue the past and time enough to dwell on the circumstances leading to my imprisonment. The truth is this – I fear I will only leave here in a coffin. Alphonse picks up on my moods so I try to remain optimistic in what appears to be a hopeless situation. Being a sensitive soul Alphonse tends to mirror my despondency. This morning he was watching my every move, so I made a big show of humming cheerfully as I arranged my easel and oil paints. For when Alphonse is overcome by despair he barely moves in his fishbowl and hardly eats.
Painting is my new hobby but no doubt it will soon go the way of all my other diversions. Last week it was embroidery but I have such a low boredom threshold that I didn’t even complete my first doily. I’m not really the sort of woman who can sustain hobbies. Pastry making was my life and my passion and any art or craft pales by comparison. No matter, this too shall pass.
Viola popped in this afternoon. Theo ushered her in with all the pomp and ceremony he could muster. I’m not sure if he’s impressed by the fact she’s titled or if it’s simple awe at Viola being the sole owner of the finest brothel in the southern hemisphere.
He clicked his heels. ‘Lady Balcombe to see you, Miss Torte!’
Viola entered wearing a stunning fuchsia dress: tight in the bodice, fitted over the hips and swirling in a cascade over her dainty laced boots. Today she was carrying a parasol for dramatic effect, although she has been known to use parasols as weapons.
‘Ah, Viola. Such a dazzling outfit and your boots match too!’
‘Thank you. I couldn’t resist having them covered in the same fabric. One puddle and they are finished.’
Theo seemed quite distracted by Viola’s satin boots. Or was it her comely ankles?
‘Please bring us a bottle of Perrier-Jouët, Theo.’
He reluctantly withdrew his gaze from Viola’s lovely hocks. ‘At once, won’t be a jiffy, Miss Torte. Will it be the Italian or the French crystal?’
‘Let’s have the French. And Theo, ask Bruce to bring up six of those Meringues Chantilly he baked earlier. They’ll be the perfect accompaniment to the champagne.’
‘To be sure, Miss Torte.’
Theo exited, madly tugging his forelock. Why is it that servants always behave in company as though they are acting in a melodrama? Did it start with Euripides or with Shakespeare? Theo is a master of the significant look, the long pause and the shuddering recollection. I must admit I rather enjoy it.
Viola and I have known each other so long that we never bother with preliminaries.
‘Viola, I do hope you’re not going to try and talk me into doing away with Roger?’
‘Don’t be daft, of course I shall!’
‘Did you find somebody to supply the poison?’
‘Yes, Captain Phillipe Delon. He’s French, so he understands crimes of passion. Delon’s my best customer, he’s irrepressibly amorous and takes on three of my girls at one time. They adore him because he’s genuinely kind. He brings them back silk stockings and perfumes from Europe. Captain Delon docks later this week and he assures me that the poison will be discreetly delivered into our possession. And nobody will be any the wiser.’
‘He sounds like a decent bloke. But I insist we put revenge behind us.’
‘Why must you be so damned stubborn?’
‘Viola, having such a formidable adversary is a golden opportunity. One can learn so much from the likes of Roger Dasher. The courtesan Ninon de l’Enclos once said, “We should not speak ill of our enemies. They are the only people who do not deceive us.”’
Viola glared at me. ‘How on earth can you jest at a time like this? Roger was destined to die young. I have it on good authority that a former chum of his is itching to bump him off. Apparently Roger cheated him at cards, bankrupted him and seduced his fiancée.’
‘You know what? Tempting as it is, I can’t see the point in killing Roger. Besides, I don’t possess the killer instinct needed to become an assassin.’
‘Then let me arrange it, we both know I’m more ruthless than you are. That bastard’s had it coming for years. Just think, Sasha. Just a few drops of poison slipped into his wineglass and Roger drops dead from a seemingly normal heart attack.’
My stomach tightened. ‘Just a few drops. What the hell is in that stuff?’
‘It’s a distillation of Jamaica’s most toxic plant poisons. Primarily Atropa belladonna and Amanita muscaria and a few other plant derivatives to cloak the taste and hasten the effect.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The two main ingredients are deadly nightshade and fly agaric mushroom. Combined with scorpion weed, Madam Fate, blood lily and other deadly substances.’
‘I thought belladonna enhanced beauty?�
��
‘It does. Parisian courtesans and vain women everywhere have used it for years to enlarge the pupils of their eyes. The word Atropa, as in Atropa belladonna, comes from Greek mythology. Atropos was one of the three fates who chose how beings shall die.’
‘Good God. What happens if the poison falls into the wrong hands?’
‘Stop worrying and start thinking about how it could solve your problems.’
‘No, Viola. It’s out of the question.’
She paced the parlour and furiously prodded the Bengal tiger with her parasol. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life incarcerated here? With no freedom but furtive carriage rides at night, skulking around the countryside like a murderess? All the while knowing that Roger got away with having you framed and convicted?’
‘Of course not.’
‘With Roger’s death the truth will come out. You’d be free.’
‘You’re wrong, because by killing him I’d become like him. And then he’d have me forever. Viola, I need you to understand this – I’ve got no intention of taking revenge on Roger. Not now and definitely not in the future.’
She sat down with a thump on the sofa. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve been dabbling in mysticism again?’
‘Of course I have. A young woman needs intellectual pursuits when she’s at her fucking wit’s end. And contrary to what you might think, the fables of Krishna are based on universal truths.’
Viola snorted. She can be a tad equine at times. ‘Such as?’
‘Well, when Krishna has to defeat the grotesque lake serpent, he doesn’t make any attempt to fight him, as did all the others who’d failed in the task. Unlike the other warriors Krishna does not become what he is trying to defeat, he cavorts wildly and –’
‘Sasha dear, your brain is scrambled. Roger’s not some fantastical serpent. That fucker is an immoral, cheating, lying –’
‘Shhhhh, calm down. I think we should wait and see if the legal appeals have any chance of succeeding. You really should try meditation. I find it defuses my anger and provides clarity of thought.’
Viola was back on her feet and prodding the poor tiger again. ‘I feel like strangling you. The legal appeals could take years. Years! You forget that because he’s so dissolute, townsfolk expect Roger to die. So there’s absolutely no risk in us hastening his demise.’ She lightly poked me with the parasol. ‘Please, Sasha, promise me you will at least think about it?’
‘Stop. That’s enough. This is all too distressing.’
Viola desisted and soon we were laughing and chatting about the latest Wolfftown scandal. The rest of the visit passed pleasantly as we arranged for Viola’s dressmaker to come and fit me for some new tea gowns and perhaps something extravagant for evenings. One must not let standards slip. A recent shipment of the new season’s Florentine velvets has arrived on our docks. I rather fancy myself in something verdant. Captain Adam Dasher always admired me in green, he said it enhanced my flaming red hair. God, how I miss him.
One’s emotional wellbeing is decided early in life. A childhood spent in an atmosphere of security and love, produces an adult who has the emotional resources to deal effectively with the vagaries of fortune. But because of the unfortunate manner in which I was raised, my nightmares are so horrific that I often avoid going to bed. I suspect Shakespeare might have been an insomniac given he clearly understood the health benefits of a good night’s sleep: ‘Sleep knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.’
It’s common knowledge that severe sleep deprivation can lead to madness. No wonder lost souls frequently commit suicide during the graveyard shift, between midnight and eight in the morning. Please forgive my despondency.
During sleepless nights I pick up my pen and continue on with my story. Therefore I was wide awake at three hours after midnight, when I sensed a human being surrendering himself to the devil. I threw down my pen and leapt to my feet. Something horrendous was happening in the opposite tower, so I summoned Theo by relentlessly jangling the servant’s bell.
He rushed in wearing a pair of flannelette pyjamas, manfully struggling with his trouser cord. The poor man hadn’t had time to insert his false teeth.
‘Theo, thank God you’re here!’
He shook his head, trying to wake up. ‘What is it, Miss?’
‘There’s something ghastly happening in Mick Day-Lewis’s cell!’
Theo lifted his head, ears pricked and nostrils quivering. A confused hunting dog trying to obey orders. ‘I can’t hear nothing.’
‘There’s no sound but I can sense it. Get the guards immediately! Hurry!’
‘Will do, Miss Torte.’
Theo rushed off in an agitated state. It seemed an inopportune time to mention that his pyjama pants were unbuttoned and his circumcised member was on prominent display.
Sleep was now out of the question. Being psychic can be more of a burden than a gift and I felt Mick’s pain as if it was my own. My mind was paralysed with the imagined sound of howling and I dry retched as my body tried to rid itself of the evil images. Eventually I collapsed in agony on the tiger skin and gave myself over to unbridled anxiety while I awaited Theo’s return.
I knew my intuition was correct the moment I saw Theo’s face. I poured us both a stiff cognac and he gulped his down. I waited.
‘Real terrible it was.’
‘Theo, you’ll feel much better if you tell me.’
‘Mick let his damned pet ferrets out . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘Put a noose around his own neck he did . . .’
He could not continue, so I poured him another tumbler of Cognac and he drank it down in one mighty gulp.
‘We was slipping all over the bloody ferrets. Little bastards was biting like buggery and . . .’
‘He choked to death before you could cut him down.’
‘How did you know?’
‘You did your best, Theo. You tried to save him and I’m proud of you.’
‘But Miss Torte, he strangled to death because we was farting around!’
‘You must not blame yourself, Mick was determined to die by his own hand. I’m sure that if he’d failed this time he would definitely have tried again.’
Theo turned his head so I wouldn’t see his tears. ‘Perhaps the poor mad bastard will find some peace upstairs.’
‘I’m sure he will, Theo. Now, take this bottle and go back to your wife. It will help you sleep. I have it on good authority that the gods on Olympus are very partial to Cognac.’
‘Thank you, the missus loves a bit of a nightcap. Goodnight, Miss.’
He shambled out with his sad red felt slippers slapping at his calloused heels.
I knew the late Michael Day-Lewis well as he was one of my best customers at the patisserie. Mick was a handsome society painter, specialising in female portraiture. Exquisite. Painterly. Seductive. He was a Wanted Man back in merry old England, as forgery was his specialty before he took up portraiture in Tasmania.
Mick painted superb portraits while seducing the wives and daughters of his patrons. No attractive female was safe from his tender, knowing gaze. But one evening, while in the grips of absinth madness, he drowned his latest mistress in the bathtub. Grief and guilt destroyed his mind. Mick stored her dismembered corpse and then tried to dispose of her by feeding her piece by piece to wild dogs. Her father was a High Court Judge and he pulled strings to make sure that Mick was convicted of wilfully and maliciously murdering the deceased. Mick’s state of mind was publicly debated but the scandal sheets gleefully predicted he would be strung up before winter.
With Ned acting as go-between I purchased all of Mick’s new paintings and paid him triple their value, so he’d have plenty of hard currency to purchase prison privileges. I also utilised my connections to make Mick’s life tolerable and paid my lawyer, Milton Freebank, to manipulate the legal system. At the time of Mick’s death, Milton was in the process of pleading for a reduced sentence on the grounds of temporary insanity. Not a
ll legal process had been exhausted but it appears Mick had already lost hope.
It never once occurred to me that Mick would die in gaol. But now he’s dead he’ll be buried ingloriously as a heartless killer. No doubt his crime will be sensationalised in the Wolfftown Chronicle and fed to a sensation seeking public. Poor Mick, with just one tragic mistake his life veered into disaster.
But in my case, as you will shortly discover, I made numerous mistakes yet still managed to get off scot-free. That is until I threw caution to the wind and inadvertently sabotaged myself. Just as my mother had done.
4
HOME SWEET HOME
Let me tell you about my mother. Rose Kane was the hotel publican’s daughter made good. The Australian class system may well be more forgiving than the English but marrying up was still of crucial importance to Rose’s generation. Shackling Alain Torte was widely acknowledged to be a major victory for the publican’s daughter. Grandpa reckoned, ‘Your mother was used to getting her own way. Folk found it easier to give into her whims rather than endure her tantrums and volcanic rages.’
Aunt Lily added, ‘Rose was savage in her intent, ruthless in the treatment of her rivals. I remember a Butchers’ Picnic where Alain was flirting with Adelaide Jones, the Governor’s daughter. Rose pinned her to the ground, grabbed a pot of plum jam and fiercely rubbed it into Adelaide’s long hair. It took three men to pull Rose off. Eventually it became a one-horse race because every eligible young woman in town was terrified of crossing our Rose.’
My mother was beloved but not loving. The only recollection I have of her holding or touching me was when she was examining my fingernails, a weekly inspection of my toilet being her only consent to motherhood. If my hygiene was found wanting, Nanny would be fetched and given the most terrible drubbing. Without a doubt I was the cleanest child in the whole of Tasmania, possibly even Australia. My ears smarted from the constant application of wet flannels.
I was not allowed to address her as Mamma or Mummy but only as Rose or Madam. On rare occasions I was tolerated in Madam’s boudoir and permitted the treat of watching her getting dressed for an evening out. Mother was pink from her bath and naked under a sumptuous silk tea gown. Cecily, her maid, smoothed fine silk stockings over Madam’s legs and then slipped a silk chemise over her head.
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 3