He told us that in Melbourne he mostly found broken leads and the only people who would talk to him at any length he soon discovered to be liars and crooks. But he also interviewed policemen who said that they fully expected the Kellys to emerge from hiding any day, and that then they would be ready for them. He said no-one believes that, not after so many months of futile hunting. There were questions being asked in Parliament, and the image of the Victorian police was suffering.
Nobody even knew for sure if the gang was still in Victoria or had slipped away to another colony or even overseas, for there had been reported sightings of them in places as far apart as California and Egypt! He said he did not really believe these reports, but you could not discount them. Ellen looked a bit annoyed by this idea—after all, if the Kellys have vanished overseas she cannot make our fortune taking their picture. Mr Turner saw the way she looked, and laughed and said never mind, he was sure the gang would turn up like a bad penny, they were bushmen and hardly likely to take to the ocean wave, even if they could get past port security. And then there was the fact, he said, that in north-eastern Victoria they knew the country and were protected by the locals—in other places, things might not be so easy for them, and the reward would attract people who did not know or care about them. He showed us his notebook, which was full now (he’d had to buy a new one). He had so much material, he said, he’d decided not to waste it on articles but to write a book. Ned Kelly, Australian Bandit, he’d call it. It would make his name. It would really make his name.
October 18
Glimpsed Detective Ward having a word to Aaron Sherritt today, as I was passing one of the hotels on an errand for Mr Ingram. They did not look like they were having a friendly chat, but I remembered what some people say about him being a spy ready to sell the Kellys. I wonder if it is so. I do not think anyone would dare challenge Sherritt on it openly though. He is a dangerous man who could easily punch your head in, or worse. Oh, and his sweetheart Miss Barry no longer works at Ingram’s, she finally got the sack.
October 23
The phrenologist called in at Mrs Pickett’s today. He said he had heard Ellen took good pictures and he was looking to replenish his visiting-card stock which he uses for his publicity. He is a funny little bustling man with a goatee beard and black eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, and claims to be a Russian count (he calls himself Professor Poliakoff). Ellen says that in her opinion he is about as Russian as her left foot, though why her feet, left or right, should be in any way connected to Russia I have no idea.
Anyway, while the photos were being taken the professor talked a good deal, about his theories on the Kellys but also about a public lecture he had been to in Melbourne a few weeks ago. It was given by a reformed bank-robber and ex-preacher called Andrew Scott, who spoke most disparagingly about the Kellys. He said they lived mainly on luck and not good planning, unlike his good self.
‘An interesting case,’ said the professor happily. ‘He let me examine him, and though I did not say so—one must be tactful—the bumps on his head quickly indicated an excitable and jealous nature. I would not be at all surprised if he did not commit another outrage himself to draw attention away from his rivals.’
The professor is one of those people who give you the impression they know just about everything, even things about yourself you might think are hidden. Annoying, usually, but somehow you can’t help but like the bouncy little professor, despite the fact he is, as Ellen says, most likely a fraud. But he paid in good solid money, so that is one thing. His show is over now—he is to go on to New South Wales—but he invited us to come and watch it any time that we might wish, and left us his card.
October 25
We are to go to Greta! A message came from Emma today to say that the Kelly girls had talked it over and finally decided to take up Ellen’s kind offer. But there’s a catch. We must come on our own. If we came with anyone else, we would be shown the door at once. They most especially did not want any journalists, Emma reported. They’d had bad experiences with the gentlemen of the press, who only ever took the word of the police and never theirs, and had insulted them in print several times.
Well, Mr Turner was very, very annoyed by this, and I got the impression he was going to make a fuss at first and demand we take him anyway, but then he winked and said that what the Kelly girls didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He’d come quite separately to us and put up not in Greta itself, but nearby. He would give us questions which we might put to the girls in his place while he sniffed around other trails on his own elsewhere. And he promised not to try to contact the girls himself. Ellen looked relieved. I think she’s a little nervous about what we plan to do and is grateful that Mr Turner will be hovering not too far away.
We had to get leave from my employer and Mrs Pickett, but that was much easier than I would have thought, for Ellen simply produced a ‘letter’ from Uncle Will stating he and Aunt Julia were in Wangaratta visiting friends and would like us to join them for a few days. (Mention of Greta was thought to be suspicious.) They could not come to Beechworth, for they had not enough time. But as they were our only kin, Ellen explained, we could not miss this opportunity to see them. Both Mr Ingram and Mrs Pickett readily understood. Their kindness was such as to cause me a few queasy feelings. I wish we did not have to lie on the matter. But we can hardly tell the truth. Not yet. Not until it is all safely done and we have our prize developed and printed.
Greta, October 28
We are in Greta! It is nowhere near as fine as Beechworth, and quite a bit smaller too, but there are several stores and a blacksmith’s shop and a couple of hotels, in one of which we have taken a room. I have to sleep on the floor on a mattress, as Ellen professes herself unable to stand my tossing and turning and we cannot afford another room.
There is also a small police station in Greta and this afternoon a little after we arrived we observed some activity going on there. On asking the publican what it meant, we were told that there had been reports of the Kellys being sighted at Benalla, and some talk they were headed this way. I thought it quite promising, but Ellen was annoyed. She said it was less likely we would get our quarry, and that the Kelly girls would certainly not want us buzzing about if there was any chance of the police getting close to their brothers and their mates.
Mr Turner has not arrived yet, at least I do not think so. But he was going to stay in Benalla, and just now it occurs to me that if the gang has been sighted there then maybe he is in a better spot than we are. For there has been no word from the Kelly homestead in any shape or form.
October 29
We are still waiting for word. We explored Greta today, but soon exhausted its possibilities. For most of the day we have been going round and round in circles wondering what to do and if we have been gulled and will have to go back to Beechworth empty-handed. We do not attract undue attention because there are always travelling photographers passing through country districts and people are used to it. Ellen has already started taking photographs of the township and environs and been approached by people like the publican who would like a family portrait done, so at least it will not all be wasted time, even if the Kellys never give us sign of life. As to me, I have spent much of my time walking with Lorna and reading—I brought The Man in the Iron Mask with me, just in case.
Still no sign of Mr Turner either, which is a bit odd. Ellen says that if he does not turn up soon, we will go to Benalla to find him and see if he has found out anything. I think that for some reason she is disappointed in him, though she does not say so.
October 31
It’s on! This morning Ellen was in one of the stores. There was a great crowd milling about—and she got bumped into by someone—she did not see who—and in the confusion, felt something being pressed into her hand. It was of course a note. Though she tried to see who it was that had passed it, she did not manage to catch a glimpse. Never mind, she says, that does not matter, for we are summoned at last, with our camera,
to the Kelly homestead at Eleven Mile Creek.
November 1
What a strange day it has been. When we rattled out of Greta in the buggy I felt sure someone—the police or their spies—would guess where we were heading and put a tail on us or even seek to ambush us. Everything was quiet however, and as we approached the wooden slab homestead at Eleven Mile Creek my heart was beating so fast I felt as though it would jump out of my chest.
The house, which I learned later was built by Ned Kelly himself two years ago, is very solidly built out of thick slabs of ironbark, and also has a fine brick chimney. It looked like many other country people’s houses you could see any day of the week and it seemed to me strange that here was the home of the most notorious outlaw of our time!
Dogs barked as we came closer and Lorna stood up stiffly, ears erect, eyes bright. I hoped she wouldn’t jump off the buggy and go for the other dogs.
Just then, a young man came out of the house. Holding Lorna back, I whispered to Ellen, ‘Oh my God, it’s one of them!’
‘Good,’ said Ellen. ‘Excellent.’ But her voice was shaking.
The young man came towards us. He had light eyes and was quite fair, with a fringe of beard. He looked us over. ‘You’re the photographers?’
Ellen flushed. ‘I assure you, Mr … er …’
‘Lloyd,’ said the young man. ‘Tom Lloyd. Cousin of the Kellys.’ It was a sort of relief but also disappointing that he wasn’t actually a member of the gang. But then how likely was it they would show themselves so openly to a pair of strangers? ‘I hope you’re not a scribbler for some rag of a paper,’ he went on, ‘looking to make a dishonest penny from my cousins’ afflictions. We had one of those here just the other day, poking and spying around. Mouthy blackguard. I told him to get going in no uncertain terms.’
Ellen and I looked at each other, the same thought going through our minds. Was it Mr Turner who had turned up on the trail of his story? But surely he wouldn’t have done that, and gone behind our backs? He’d promised, after all. In any case, it had made things awkward here, whoever it was.
‘I assure you, Mr Lloyd,’ Ellen said, going red, ‘that I am no such thing. I am not a journalist of any sort, but a travelling photographer, trying to earn a living. I offered my services to the Kelly ladies in good faith.’
For a moment it looked like he might still tell us to clear off; but then he shrugged and said, ‘You might as well come in then.’
We went in on his heels, Lorna following on mine. It was darkish in the house, for there were only a few small narrow windows. This being a cool grey sort of day, there was a fire going and its light fell on the faces of the people gathered around the table. I recognised Kate. There was another young woman who looked to be in her twenties, and a younger girl, who didn’t look much older than me. Three or four little children played noisily at their feet, and the older girl had a baby in her arms.
Everyone turned and stared at us as we came in, it was most unnerving. For the first time it came to me that the Kellys weren’t just creatures of song and story and wanted posters. Seeing them in this homely setting you suddenly realised they were people of flesh and blood and we were strangers intruding on their lives for our own reasons. It suddenly made me feel uncomfortable, and I wished for a moment that we were miles away from there. Then the older girl smiled and said, ‘You are much younger than I expected,’ and Ellen retorted that no matter her age, she did know her business. She’d brought photos to show the ladies just what she could do, and everyone crowded around to look.
Most people like photos, it is a fact. Photos of people, that is. Ellen had brought some of the pictures she had taken in Beechworth, and there was a good deal of exclamation about faces they recognised, and soon the atmosphere became quite jolly. They introduced themselves—the older girl was Maggie Kelly as was, now Maggie Skillion. The younger girl was Grace, and the children were a mixture of Maggie’s own and half-siblings of the Kellys from their mother’s second marriage. There is a look about them all which seems familiar to me, but I do not know why, unless it is an imagined likeness to the image of their brother on those posters.
The talk turned quite naturally to absent family members and then at last to what we really wanted to hear about, the famous brothers. There was no way we could even think of asking the questions Mr Turner had given us, though. It would have made them smell a rat at once. So we just listened to them talk. Maggie was fierce in her brothers’ defence. She said that if the boys really had their dues, the world would know how badly they’d been treated and how it was all due to ‘that bloody liar Fitzpatrick’, whose perjury had sent their beloved and innocent mother to gaol. The boys can’t stand that, she said, especially Ned. It was all interesting enough, but unfortunately it didn’t get us closer to knowing where ‘the boys’ were. All we learned of their present whereabouts was that they were somewhere far away and could not to be contacted. I looked at Ellen when I heard that and I saw the disappointment in her face, but she covered it well by discussing how she would set up the shots. We all then trooped outside and set up the camera and arranged the shots and Ellen took three or four photos.
Well, after that cups of tea were produced and some fingers of bread and cheese and Maggie talked about how hard it was to try to keep the family together. Everyone helped all they could, she said, giving Tom a fond smile, the family bar a few exceptions being good people—but it was hard, no question about it, and the police persecution made it ten times worse.
‘They had even tried to poison our dogs,’ she said, eyes flashing. ‘Can you believe that low-down act? We have to keep them muzzled all the time, and what good’s that when we need protection?’
Tom clenched his fists and said that with very few exceptions the police were loafers and liars and cowards. They called other people rogues, but it was they who were the real rogues, taking shelter behind uniforms. His eyes when he said these things had a hard, angry shine to them and you knew you could not argue, so of course we did not.
Eventually Maggie got up and handed her baby—his name is Neddie, after his uncle!—to Kate and, with Tom, saw us outside. Ellen said that she would get the photos developed as soon as possible and send a message when they were ready to be collected, which was agreed to. Then Ellen said cautiously that if there was anyone else they knew—anyone else in the family—who might like to have their pictures taken, we could return soon with the camera and take some more pictures. Both Maggie and Tom looked sharply at us—that was a bad moment because I just knew Ellen had blundered—but then Maggie shrugged and said ‘We’ll see.’ We had to be content with that and set off again in our buggy, not daring to speak to each other till we were well out of earshot.
Ellen was happy with our expedition, and sure we would soon be summoned back to photograph the boys. She thinks we have made a great bond with the girls. I am not so sure. I think they are very much in their own world and concerned with their own affairs and don’t notice other people much. But I did not say so or my ears would never have survived the tongue-lashing!
November 2
Mr Turner came back from Benalla this morning. Ellen taxed him at once with having gone to the Kellys alone and he got most indignant and said haughtily that he most certainly had not gone anywhere near there. Instead he had been sent on a wild goose chase into the bush by a man who claimed to know where the Kellys were camping but had just led him round in circles. Ellen looked hard at him, but he held her gaze, and I think he was telling the truth. Funnily enough though, he didn’t seem jealous that we had already been to the Kelly homestead without him, but said that was a good start and maybe next time we could go together. He will stay in Greta tonight, he said, and when or if we return to Eleven Mile Creek he will come with us. I did not think it a good idea because the Kelly girls had said very plainly no-one else should be with us and Tom Lloyd appears to hate journalists, but it is hard to argue with Mr Turner. He is so enthusiastic and optimistic and ready to have a go.
And besides, I think we both felt guilty for suspecting him.
Beechworth, November 3
Back in Beechworth. Mrs Pickett was delighted to see us, and asked if we had a lovely time with our uncle and aunt. Nearly stared at her in confusion before remembering that’s what we were meant to be doing! Chopped lots of wood for her today. Going back to Mr Ingram’s the day after tomorrow.
Saw Detective Ward in the street, but he did not see me. Not much police activity, though. Mr Church says the police are lulling the outlaws into a false sense of security so one day they will emerge from hiding and get caught. I think it is unlikely. They have eluded the police for a long time and are hardly likely to jump up and show themselves for no good reason. Though Mr Jardine says they must be getting short of money by now, they’ll have been giving it out left, right and centre to keep themselves going, and one of these days they’re going to have to break a bank again.
November 6
Ellen hasn’t started developing the photos yet, as Mrs Pickett must not know about them, or else she’ll know we lied about where we’ve been. And though Mrs Pickett is tolerant and kind, I don’t think she’d approve at all of hobnobbing with Kellys, even if it’s for work. So Ellen’s waiting for the right moment. Meanwhile she’s been taking commissions here again and is quite busy, though a bit out of sorts as the nomadic Mr Turner has gone off to New South Wales on the trail of some story. Here today, gone tomorrow, that’s him.
The Hunt for Ned Kelly Page 6