Dust on the Horizon

by Tricia Stringer

  “Her duty is to be with her husband.”

  Catherine felt sick. Her clothes were too tight and the room felt stuffy. “I’m only delaying a little longer. Charles is very demanding.”

  Harriet looked from the sleeping baby to Florence and then to Catherine. Her eyes glittered. “I can see that.” She crossed the room to Catherine. “You are a capable young woman. That’s one of the reasons Henry married you.” Harriet fixed her with a steely look. “I am sure you know where your duty lies.” Harriet bent down and kissed her grandson’s forehead then handed him to Catherine. “I must go to my appointment. I can see myself out.” At the door Harriet stopped. “I look forward to visiting you next time in Hawker. I am most interested to see the grand house Henry has built for you.” Then she was gone.

  Catherine felt a rush of guilt. Charles began to squirm in her arms and then let out a sharp cry. Catherine looked at her mother and tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Florence was quickly at her side, holding her close. “There, there, my darling, don’t upset yourself. All will be well. We’ve already sent the telegraph to Henry. He will understand you need a little more time.”

  Catherine’s lip wobbled. She wasn’t so sure that her mother was right.

  The stonework of the house reflected the late-afternoon sun, giving it a golden glow. Henry swept his gaze along the newly painted verandah rails gleaming with deep green paint, to the shining glass of the large front windows with their brass latches and then to the grand front door. Solid wood, polished to the same tone as the golden stone, and with a large wrought-iron knocker above a central door handle. It had stretched his purse and he’d had to bully and cajole the builders to finish but it was done at last. All ready for his wife to return home with their son, Charles Henry.

  Henry spun on his heel and walked back down the new stone path. The trouble was, it appeared his wife was not returning home any time soon. This morning he had received a telegraph saying Catherine was delaying her return once more and in the afternoon he had received a telegraph from his mother saying he should come and visit his wife and son. Whatever was going on, it was time Catherine came home.

  He blamed her mother Florence for encouraging her to stay away. Florence had never wanted her daughter to live in the wild bush country, as she’d called Hawker. Henry had worked hard to prove to Catherine’s family that he could provide for her very well in Hawker.

  He stepped through the new gate and latched it then stopped to look up at his new house. A surge of pride puffed out his chest. All was in readiness. Flora had done a fine job of selecting the fabric for the curtains and had even been the one to sew them. There were rugs on the floor in the two main rooms. He had moved in what furniture they had and their personal effects. He was sure Catherine would want to add her own touches but at least the house was ready to live in. She could change things later if she wished.

  Henry turned away and made the short journey next door to what had been his rental accommodation. Flora Nixon and her two children were now installed there and he was going to enjoy one of her home-cooked meals before retiring to his new house for the night. Tomorrow, instead of meeting the train, he would be travelling on it. Catherine could delay no longer. Her place was at his side and he wanted to get to know his son. If she wouldn’t come home Henry would go and fetch her home.

  Eighteen

  Joseph strode along Hawker’s main street. The mid-morning sun beat down from a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. He had made good time getting to town, only stopping when he’d lost the light totally last night and was on his way again as the sun was only a faint glow in the morning sky. He had purchased all that was on Mary’s list and more from Mr Garrat’s shop where he’d heard all about the recent cricket match and the many farmers on the plains whose crops looked set to fail yet again. He made a visit to the saddler, and now he was headed towards the rough one-room dwelling that served as the police station. Behind him the whistle of the departing train pierced the air. His next stop was to see the constable.

  A cart passed close beside him and two dogs ran behind it. Joseph looked down just in time to avoid a pile of horse dung, only one of many scattering the area. There were other such traps for those on foot to be wary of. Sanitation in the town was poor and the smell was particularly bad today. Joseph tucked his head down and tried not to take too deep a breath.

  Outside the police station he paused at the sight of a partially clothed native chained to a post. The chap leaned against the post with his head down, the sun beating down on him from above. At Joseph’s approach his head moved slightly. Large brown eyes peered out from under a mop of dark curls then the head dropped down again.

  Joseph felt a chill run through him in spite of the warm day. The native’s glance had been empty, as if neither the man at the post nor Joseph existed.

  The door to the hut was open. Joseph glanced once more at the poor native before he removed his hat and stooped through the low doorframe. There was a man in uniform seated at a crude desk.

  “Constable Cooper?” Joseph asked.

  “I am he.” The constable stood. He was a head shorter than Joseph, thin of frame with clear blue eyes and a bushy moustache. “And you are?”

  “Joseph Baker from Smith’s Ridge.”

  The constable’s sharp gaze swept over Joseph as he accepted his hand and gave it a firm shake.

  “I was soon to be on my way to visit you, Mr Baker. Perhaps you’ve saved me the journey.” Cooper held his hand a little longer and looked steadily into his eyes. “The death of young Prosser needs to be investigated.”

  “Along with the death of a native in the same incident.”

  The constable let go of his hand but held his gaze. “I had been informed of native involvement but not of another death. Please have a seat.”

  Joseph glanced around. The only chair was the one the constable resumed his place on. In the corner of the hut was a wooden bed neatly made up and covered with a grey blanket. Joseph sat on the end.

  Cooper settled himself back in his chair. “Since I arrived there have been several occurrences that have needed my attention. Business people tell me there has been ongoing petty theft and in the last week we’ve had several incidents. It has delayed me leaving Hawker.”

  “The man chained to the post?”

  “Standard procedure. He will not sit quietly. It is the only way I can keep him safe and secure until the magistrate arrives tomorrow.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty?” Joseph was already concerned it may be a mistake to talk to the constable about the incident between Prosser and the natives on his land.

  “Of course.” Cooper picked up a ledger and opened the pages. “Now what can you tell me about the murder of Ellis Prosser’s son?”

  “I wasn’t there. The man who works for me, Binda—”

  “A native?” Cooper raised his head, his look one of interest.

  “I’ve known him a long time.” Joseph pulled himself up a little taller on the bed. “Binda saved my life twice. I still trust him with it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Binda’s wife’s family camp near a waterhole on Smith’s Ridge from time to time. Binda was with them when Prosser and his men came on to my land looking for a supposed thief.”

  “Mr Prosser had approximately fifty sheep stolen and found them in country at the back of his property.”

  “I know it. It’s inhospitable country. Prosser has no fences. It is possible that sheep could find their way there. They would be difficult to find again.”

  “Or they could have been moved there by someone who wanted to conceal their whereabouts?”

  Once more Joseph met the constable’s sharp look.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened when Ellis Prosser came to the native camp?”

  “I wasn’t there. Binda sent his son, Joe, to get me. My father was staying with me at the time. He accompanied me to the camp but there was no-one there. We went looking a
nd came across the native group returning to their camp. Several of them were badly injured and they carried one man who was dead. He was battered and appeared to have been crushed. Binda told me Prosser and his men had rounded up the natives, fired their guns in the air. Everyone was frightened and the dead man was squashed between a horse and a rock wall.”

  Cooper leaned back in his chair and studied Joseph. “But you were not there when this happened?”

  “No. I only saw the results of the altercation.”

  “And where is the dead native now?”

  “I don’t know. The family have their burial rituals. It’s their own business.”

  “And you didn’t see which native threw the spear that killed Mr Prosser’s son?”

  Joseph continued to hold the constable’s steady gaze. “No.”

  Cooper sat up suddenly and looked at the open book in front of him. “Your story is different to Prosser’s. He paints the natives as the aggressors.”

  “He would.” Joseph glanced at the pages but he couldn’t read anything from where he sat. “Ellis Prosser is not inclined to like natives.”

  “But you are?”

  “I am inclined to treat all men fairly unless they give me reason to do otherwise.” Joseph stood up. “A man’s word is worth more than how he looks.”

  Constable Cooper rose to his feet. Even though Joseph was taller the constable’s presence was commanding. He held Joseph’s look as though thinking things over.

  “Thank you for your information, Mr Baker. I will continue to investigate but I have the feeling it will be difficult for me to get to the true bottom of this incident. Two men are already dead, it seems. Perhaps in a crude way justice has been served.”

  Joseph pushed his hat back onto his head. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or enraged at the constable’s response. He nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “I also understand you are now a widower, Mr Baker.”

  A knife of pain stabbed through Joseph. Every now and then he forgot about Clara’s death and when he remembered it was fresh again, as if it had just happened.

  “My wife died giving birth several weeks ago.”

  Cooper offered his hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Joseph accepted the shake and turned away to duck out through the door.

  “Mr Baker?”

  Joseph looked back. The constable was standing stiffly, framed in the doorway that wasn’t too low for him.

  “I hope that I can come and visit Smith’s Ridge one day. I am interested to know the country further out than that around Hawker.”

  Joseph nodded. “You would be welcome, constable.” He turned to give one last look at the chained native and opened his mouth in surprise. The post was empty, the chains that had bound the native’s wrists dangled free and a pair of trousers lay crumpled on the ground.

  Cooper let out a growl as he noticed his prisoner was gone. He strode to the post and picked up the chain.

  Joseph walked away a smile playing on his lips. The cuffs were designed for thicker-wristed Europeans. No doubt the fellow had wriggled free. He hoped the native had the good sense to clear well away from Hawker and Constable Cooper’s reach.

  Joseph’s humour was short lived. His next job was to confront Henry Wiltshire over the bottle of tonic he had supplied for Clara. Perhaps that was something he should have mentioned to the constable but what could he do? Best Joseph faced Henry personally and had it out with him.

  Joseph sucked in a long breath. The stench of something rotten made him wish he hadn’t. He picked his way along the street until he made Wiltshire’s verandah where he stopped to straighten his shirt collar and brush off his jacket.

  He pushed the door open firmly, setting off the bell above his head in a shrill jangle.

  A pale-faced young man with dark hair brushed back from his forehead and a reedy moustache looked up from the counter. His lips turned up in a thin smile.

  “How may I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Mr Wiltshire.”

  “I’m sorry but you’ve just missed him. Perhaps I can help you?”

  Joseph studied the scrawny-looking chap a moment. “No. My business is with Mr Wiltshire. How long until he returns?”

  “I am not sure, sir. Possibly a week. He has just taken the train to Adelaide to collect Mrs Wiltshire and their new son.”

  Joseph felt as if he’d been punched. The room closed in around him. He’d come here to accuse Wiltshire of poisoning his wife only to find the man had a baby and his wife had clearly survived the birth. Wiltshire obviously hadn’t drugged her with his vile potion. Not that Joseph wished her any harm. She was far too nice a person to be married to Henry Wiltshire.

  “Are you all right, sir?” The assistant came around the counter. “Are you sure there’s not something I can help with? My name is Malachi Hemming. I am Mr Wiltshire’s assistant and he has placed full trust in me.”

  Hemming’s voice sliced through Joseph’s pain. The man peered from beady little eyes. His look reminded Joseph of Wiltshire.

  Joseph drew in a breath then let it hiss out over his teeth. “Henry Wiltshire may very well put his trust in you, Mr Hemming, but I would not reciprocate the gesture if I was you.”

  Hemming blinked then opened out his hand towards Joseph. “Whatever the problem is, sir, I would like to try to help.”

  The door opened behind Joseph. A stout woman bearing a basket entered the shop. Joseph glanced in her direction then back at Malachi Hemming. He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “The only thing I suggest you do in his absence is rid your shop of his vile tonics.”

  Malachi glanced past him, no doubt concerned at the presence of another customer. “I’m not sure what’s happened, sir, but Mr Wiltshire only sells the very best remedies.”

  “They are poisonous.” Joseph felt the fury building inside him. He poked a finger at Hemming’s chest. He wanted justice for Clara and their baby.

  “I’m sure there’s some mistake.” Hemming’s eyes swivelled back and forth between Joseph and the new customer.

  “Are you Mr Baker from Smith’s Ridge?” The woman with the basket had come to stand beside him, her face full of concern.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Mr Baker. I am Mrs Taylor, the stationmaster’s wife. I was so sorry to hear about your wife’s passing. And did I hear you right in suggesting that the tonic you have bought from Mr Wiltshire was the cause? I thought she died after a difficult birth.”

  Joseph looked from Mr Hemming’s agitated face to Mrs Taylor. “She did, but she was not helped by the tonic that Mr Wiltshire gave her.”

  “Oh, my poor man.” Mrs Taylor patted Joseph’s arm. “Childbirth can be a difficult thing. I myself had a terrible time delivering my last baby. The babe didn’t survive and I nearly died myself. It was several years ago now but grief is a terrible thing. We look for someone to blame but we can’t change God’s will.”

  Joseph felt as if he would burst with outrage. What did this woman know about what happened to Clara? And how dare she lecture him on God’s will.

  “My husband is a firm believer in the Hathaway Oil that Mr Wiltshire sells.” Mrs Taylor prattled on, oblivious to the rage that churned inside Joseph. “It has brought great relief to his aching legs. Once again I am so very sorry for your loss Mr Baker, but I am sure you can’t blame Mr Wiltshire’s medicinal tonics for it.”

  Joseph opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The woman looked at him benevolently as if he was a child in need of gentle correction. Mr Hemming remained silent but Joseph noted his face had changed from concern to an almost smug look.

  With a wrench of his arm Joseph pulled from Mrs Taylor’s grasp, gave a final glare at Malachi Hemming and turned on his heel. Behind him he heard the woman gasp.

  “Well I never,” she said.

  Joseph didn’t look back. He strode out the door and onto the wooden verandah then along the road, not looking left or right u
ntil he reached the place he’d left his horse and cart. His chest was heaving and his hands shook as he took the lead that tethered his horse. For a moment Joseph rested his head against the warm neck of the animal and it stayed put as if sensing his need.

  Slowly his breathing calmed and he relaxed. Joseph had prepared himself to have it out with Wiltshire and now, robbed of the opportunity, the fight had gone out of him leaving him with only the aching sorrow. He climbed up onto the seat of his loaded cart. At least he had his supplies. He wasn’t sure much good would come from his visit to the constable, and his trip to Henry Wiltshire’s shop had been a total waste of time. With a click of his tongue and a flick of the reins he headed cart and horse for home.

  Nineteen

  Henry left the grand arches of the Adelaide railway station and made his way along to King William Street. Walking the path beside the wide road, all manner of carts passed him in both directions, drawn by every kind of horse, from a single trap with a fine bay to a carriage pulled by two sleek black thoroughbreds and many large wagons drawn by huge draught horses. Henry had become accustomed to the quieter life of Hawker. Adelaide bustled with life.

  He made his way to the new bridge over the Torrens, which had only opened a few years before, and paused to look down at the succession of pools of brackish water that were grandly called a river. Even from the height of the bridge he got a waft of the malodorous ponds below. Water only flowed during winter and here it was the first days of summer. It would be a long time before water trickled below the bridge again. He gazed along the muddy banks in the direction of the sea, six miles away. It wasn’t only the country in the north that suffered from deficiency of water. South Australia lacked abundant water wherever people had settled.

  By the time he made it to his mother’s new location in North Adelaide he was weary and his throat parched. It was almost closing time as he entered her shop on O’Connell Street. Several women looked up as he entered, but only one of them approached him as the rest returned to their end-of-day tidying.