Ghost Gum Valley

by Johanna Nicholls

  Her admirer’s reply was so soft that Marmaduke was not able to translate the words beyond the odd Gallic endearment but he recognised full well the seductive tone. It drew from Josepha a trill of laughter that Marmaduke had often aroused when sharing her bed. Was her teasing laughter designed to encourage the Frenchman? Or was she giving a performance aimed at her intended audience – Marmaduke?

  He retrieved his hat with a wry smile. A woman’s revenge was bittersweet in any language. He knew when it was time to take his leave.

  Check mate, Josepha. I hope I leave you in good hands, sweet lady.

  Chapter 35

  Marmaduke submerged himself in a hot bath in Garnet Gamble’s chambers at the Princess Alexandrina Hotel. He had accomplished most of the things for which he had come to Sydney but his gut instinct told him today would be a day like no other.

  In Josepha St John’s chambers he had agreed to offer her his protection – a chaste night on her couch. Instead, he had been forced to play gooseberry while she entertained her Gallic lover in her boudoir. For the first time in his adult life Marmaduke had declined a lusty night in a mistress’s bed. He was reminded he was approaching the age of twenty-five.

  ‘I must be getting old,’ he said under his breath but knew the truth. Isabel.

  He was warmed by the memory of her half-innocent expression when she requested that he demonstrate on his return the art of being Kissed in Four Places. Had she any idea how erotic this was? Images from his past encounters with voluptuous female bodies flooded his mind then vanished, to be replaced by Isabel’s slender, almost boyish naked form – the face, the eyes, the sweet taste of her lips were hers alone.

  ‘Enough!’ he warned himself. ‘You’ve chosen to play the role of hero. Get going. You’ve only got a short time to prove it before Silas de Rolland drops anchor.’

  Dressed in one of his ‘English gentleman’s’ suits of clothes, he swore in resignation over his failure, yet again, to perfect his cravat then attacked his French breakfast. Today he would be forced to play the Quality at its own game. It went against the grain but he was determined to do it for Isabel’s sake.

  His first call was an exhibition of paintings and memorabilia donated by the Colony’s artists and the Exclusives to raise funds for the Orphans’ Benevolent Asylum. The Quality would no doubt want be seen trying to outbid each other at an auction of paintings, an event to be opened by Governor Bourke’s daughter, Mrs Deas Thompson. He hoped an encounter with her would facilitate Isabel’s acceptance into Sydney society.

  Marmaduke was aware that Anne Maria Bourke had married her father’s most trusted public servant, Edward Deas Thompson, an industrious Scottish-American whom Bourke had inherited from Governor Darling and appointed to the arduous dual role of clerk to the Executive and Legislative Councils. The young man’s record was so exemplary none could claim nepotism should Bourke appoint his son-in-law Colonial-Secretary in the event Alexander McLeay agreed to vacate the post.

  On Marmaduke’s arrival at the Georgian sandstone offices of the Surveyor-General he made a cursory inspection of the items listed for auction, including work by Augustus Earle, the artist who had painted his mother’s portrait. But he was more attracted to the adjacent room that held a magnificent Government-owned Australian collection assembled by William Holmes. The young curator had been sent to the Colony at the directive of Westminster but allocated by Lord Bathurst to the limit of a paltry two hundred pounds a year towards the formation of a public museum.

  Standing in front of a showcase housing Aboriginal artifacts of great antiquity, Marmaduke felt a distinct sense of Currency pride. He was addressed by a young man with a diffident English accent.

  ‘I trust you find these worthy of your attention, sir?’

  ‘Worthy? They’re magnificent, mate. Europe would go nuts over this exhibition.’

  Too late Marmaduke realised his gaff. Nuts! Shit, I just dropped my English façade.

  He hastily introduced himself. ‘So you’re William Holmes, the genius behind all this. Thank God you’re making the Colony wake up that Australia’s cultural heritage is unique!’

  William Holmes gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘No genius, Mr Gamble, simply a humble but passionate curator.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself. If you hadn’t fought to preserve what the Sydney Gazette likes to call “Australian curiosities” they’d be lost to posterity. This stuff doesn’t just belong to us, it belongs to the whole damn world. To the future!’

  The curator’s face flushed with pleasure. ‘I wish politicians and benefactors could see it through your eyes. I’ve had to pack up this entire collection and move it from pillar to post, literally from the Old Post Office to wherever the Government grants me house room. I trust that our leaders will someday grant the necessary funds to build a permanent home for it.’

  Marmaduke spread his arms wide to encompass that vision. ‘The first Australian Museum! That’s no mere dream, Will. It’s gunna be reality, with you as its director!’

  Catching Marmaduke’s enthusiasm, the curator shepherded him around the room, animatedly confiding the stories behind his discoveries and their tribal significance.

  Turning a corner they encountered a lady immaculately dressed in dove-grey silk with a touch of black indicating she was still in mourning. Marmaduke recognised he was face to face with His Excellency’s daughter.

  William Holmes bowed to her and gestured to Marmaduke. ‘Mrs Deas Thomson, may I introduce my good friend, Mr Marmaduke Gamble?’

  Marmaduke was grateful for the exaggerated introduction.

  She blinked at the name Gamble. Garnet’s nothing if not notorious. But if Bourke’s daughter is a chip off the old block, she won’t snub me for being an Emancipist’s son.

  Marmaduke made her an elegant bow and during their exchange of polite English chit-chat he managed to balance the correct degree of formality with a hint of self-interest. He indicated that his bride was a member of the English de Rolland family.

  ‘Ah yes. Godfrey de Rolland is well known to my father’s family. Perhaps it would interest Mrs Gamble to join the ladies’ committee of the Orphans’ Asylum?’

  ‘I can guarantee it, ma’am. Isabel is dead keen about the welfare of orphan kiddies,’ Marmaduke said firmly. He was rewarded with a smile.

  On the point of departure the Governor’s daughter inclined her head to him. ‘I shall have my secretary send you and Mrs Gamble an invitation. I look forward to welcoming her to the Colony.’

  When the auctioneer’s gravel sounded in the next room Marmaduke warmly shook William Holmes by the hand.

  I must get Garnet to make a handsome donation towards this bloke’s museum.

  Determined to make his presence felt, Marmaduke raised his hand to bid for a number of paintings that he did not really want. He was not disappointed when he was outbid.

  I’ve got to put a roof over Isabel’s head and stock Mingaletta with a mob of sheep and cattle before I go nuts buying paintings.

  Before sundown Marmaduke had discussed his house plans for Mingaletta with a gifted young architect who was not yet fashionable and therefore affordable. He had also drafted his first ever Last Will and Testament and bought a thoroughbred mare with a bloodline almost as impressive as Isabel’s.

  He penned a letter to be delivered by messenger to Waratah Waters, Rupert Grantham’s vast estate that fronted the Cook’s River a few miles west of Sydney.

  Dear Rupert,

  My warm thanks for your Invitation to ride out with you this coming Sunday to see your new white Stallion. I really regret I must decline. I gave my word to Isabel I’d return home. You know how nervous young Brides are about the Bushranger plague.

  It suddenly occurred to Marmaduke that Rupert being a worldly bachelor who had been devoted to his late mother, probably had little experience of nervous young brides.

  Aware that the messenger was waiting downstairs in the tap room ready to ride off to deliver this letter, Marmaduke
dipped his quill in the inkwell.

  P.S. I trust you will invite me to Waratah Waters on my return to Sydney. I can’t wait to hear more of your outrageous stories about what’s really happening Behind the Scenes in this scandalous Colony.

  Until we meet again,

  Your sincere Friend,

  Marmaduke Gamble

  That Saturday night Marmaduke dined with Edwin at the Princess Alexandrina. Maeve had declined on the pretext of sewing her gown for both their forthcoming weddings.

  Edwin had had a bad week in court. Marmaduke refilled his wineglass, concerned by his friend’s haggard appearance due to what he considered his failure to his client.

  ‘Hell, Edwin, you aren’t God. The bloke was a twice-convicted thief. What was he up for this time?’

  ‘The lad was caught red-handed in the Point Piper mansion of a man of Quality. The young fool had ample time to make his escape with his loot. But the police found him in the cellar, his pockets lined with stolen goods, roaring drunk and singing anti-British songs.’

  Marmaduke tried to keep a straight face. ‘He’s lucky you saved his neck from Green the Finisher’s rope.’

  ‘Not so lucky. The magistrate’s an Orangeman. He sentenced the lad to seven years at Moreton Bay.’

  Marmaduke was determined to end on a positive note. ‘Well, it’s gorgeous country and at least the notorious Commandant Patrick Logan who they say got himself murdered by his convicts.’

  Edwin was beyond consolation. ‘I don’t like his chances under Logan’s successor.’

  Marmaduke insisted on booking Edwin a room overnight to allow them to breakfast together before their visit to reassure Josiah Mendoza that Isabel’s tiara was perfectly legal.

  ‘Tonight’s melodrama is just what the doctor ordered to lift your spirits. A Tale of Mystery is a hoot. It’s Holcroft’s translation of Coelina, ou L’Enfant du mystere, the work of René Guilbert de Pixérécourt, who cleverly aimed it at an audience who could not read. That will apply to more than half of tonight’s audience.’

  Marmaduke was delighted to see how quickly Edwin caught the mood of the crowd that packed every layer of the theatre from the pit to ‘the gods’. The most volatile members of the audience pelted the arch villain with oranges each time he dared lay a hand on the ‘poor but virtuous’ heroine. The hero, incorruptible to the point of stupidity, was often outwitted by the villain. The heroine remained painfully virtuous. The audience was both sympathetic to and frustrated by the mute, Francisco, who repeatedly witnessed the villain’s attempted outrages but could only communicate via pantomime, despite shouted warnings from the audience.

  Fuelled by Hunter Valley wine, Marmaduke and Edwin cheered the heroine and hooted the villain along with the rest of the boisterous crowd.

  At interval Marmaduke expressed his bemusement. ‘Colonial audiences are morally outraged in defence of female characters on stage. Yet in real life they ignore women’s human rights and turn a blind eye to the sport of wife-beating.’

  Edwin was philosophical. ‘Melodramas give them the illusion they can deliver justice in a Penal Colony where most of them, bond or free, are pawns in the transportation system.’

  Following the melodrama Josepha St John’s performance drew waves of excitement. She crossed the stage wearing a revealing red gown with a flowing train that she deliberately kicked behind her at each turn to give the excited audience a glimpse of her shapely ankles.

  Following Josepha’s return after a change of costume, Edwin commented that her diamonds looked real to the uninitiated.

  ‘But no doubt you can pick the genuine from the paste at a glance, eh?’

  Marmaduke leant forwards, stunned to see that as well as the ‘legendary’ necklace she wore which he knew to be paste, pinned between her breasts was a large diamond brooch in the unusual shape of a peacock.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Edwin. That diamond brooch is real. I’m damned sure because Josiah Mendoza’s been keeping it in his safe for me to give to Isabel for her birthday!’

  Marmaduke was instantly on his feet, propelling Edwin out of the box.

  ‘Jos would never give up that brooch except by force. God willing he’s still alive!’

  They hurtled down the stairs and out into George Street where rain was pelting down on the line of waiting carriages. Marmaduke put two fingers in his mouth and produced such an ear-splitting whistle that Thomas, huddled under his oilskin cape, almost fell off his perch.

  ‘Mendoza’s Store, Thomas! And don’t give way to anything!’

  The store window was plastered with a notice that read ‘Closed by Order of His Excellency the Governor Sir Richard Bourke’.

  Marmaduke fished around for his key to the door, knowing how futile that would be if his partner had bolted the padlocks. To his surprise the door swung open without resistance – there was no evidence of disorder. He charged up the narrow stairs to the attic with Edwin at his heels. When he saw the scene before him he called out to Thomas.

  ‘Fetch my whisky flask, then go for a doctor!’

  Josiah Mendoza lay shivering violently on a cot bed covered only by an old blanket. The flesh between his gray side whiskers and beard was chalk-white and he was sweating profusely. One eye was bloodshot, the other badly swollen within a sea of bruises. His lips and teeth were edged with dried blood. His teeth chattered as he attempted to speak. Marmaduke cut across the broken phrases.

  ‘It’s all right, mate. A doctor’s on his way.’ Marmaduke grabbed the whisky flask and was about to hold it to his lips when Josiah stayed his hand, demanding to know the contents.

  ‘Medicine, distilled in Scotland. It’ll stop the shakes if nothing else, mate.’

  Josiah drank thirstily from the flask, nodding in relief.

  ‘I knew you would come – so I did not bolt door. The tiara—’ Josiah began coughing.

  ‘Forget all that for now. What mongrel did this to you? The traps?’

  ‘No. Yes. I do not know. I suspect a thief in another man’s pay.’

  ‘Try to tell us, slowly, what happened. Whoever did this won’t get away with it.’

  The old man’s account was laboured but coherent. Marmaduke and Edwin pieced together the story. Only minutes after Marmaduke’s departure on Friday evening when he handed over the tiara to Mendoza’s safe-keeping, a fine carriage had drawn up, bearing a gentleman who sat watching the store. His servant, a big, tattooed man, knocked on the door, demanding to collect a watch he said his master had left for repairs.

  ‘I could not recall it but as it seemed the gentleman was waiting in the carriage. Like a fool I unbolted the door and let the servant enter.’

  ‘Damn it all he must have just seen me leaving. Did he do this to you?’

  Josiah nodded. ‘He tied me to a chair. Demanded to know where I had hidden a stolen diamond tiara. I played dumb.’ He gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I have a lifetime of experience at that.’

  Josiah pointed a trembling finger at the wall safe covered by a small curtain. ‘I let him beat me before I revealed to him the combination of this safe – to see for himself that it contained no such tiara.’ He confided in a whisper, ‘I had hidden your wife’s tiara in my other secret safe beneath the floor of my kitchen as I told you I would.’

  ‘Jesus, Josiah, you’ve got guts. What happened next?’

  ‘The thief opened the wall safe and took a tray of wedding rings, uncut diamonds and I’m sorry to say that peacock diamond brooch you wanted for Isabel and—’

  Marmaduke exchanged a meaningful glance with Edwin before reassuring Josiah.

  ‘Look, mate, don’t worry about the full inventory. Stick to the story. You gave him the combination and he stole some valuable pieces. So why did he bash you up like this?’

  ‘He was angry there was no tiara. The gentleman gave the order to beat me.’

  ‘The so-called gentleman! Did you get a good look at him? Did he have an accent? English? Colonial?’

  Josiah shook his head. ‘H
is face was in shadow. He never spoke but each time he gestured with his cane it was a signal for the thief to beat me, again and again, to make me reveal the whereabouts of the tiara. The last thing I remember was the ruffian’s boot aiming at my head. I passed out with the pain. Later I found myself alone. A constable pasted that sign on the window and he told the crowd in the street, “This Hebrew has been disturbing the peace.” It was my fault I got beaten up?’ He let out a hacking cough. ‘So now I am the crook? I am to be charged!’

  Edwin was firm. ‘An idle threat. You have no case to answer, Mr Mendoza.’

  Marmaduke reassured him. ‘Edwin brought the Will to show to you and the police. We promise you the charge will be dropped.’

  Josiah smiled through his broken teeth. ‘I knew you would come, my boy. You are Wine Son from Vinegar!’

  Edwin looked startled. ‘He’s hallucinating?’

  ‘No. That’s just Jos’s way of saying I’m a decent bloke. A cut above Garnet.’

  Marmaduke tried to convince his partner he would take him to Garnet’s hotel where he’d receive the best of care but Josiah was adamant he must protect their business interests. He had orders to complete. He whispered the position of the hidden safe.

  It contained the velvet box holding Isabel’s tiara. Marmaduke knew that no matter how Josepha St John had come by the diamond peacock brooch he did not have the heart to ask her to relinquish it or tell her the true story. His former sweet lady deserved something genuine after being reduced to a jewel box full of paste diamonds. He would reimburse his partner for the brooch. The tiara was safe. That was the important thing.

  Edwin tried to draw from Josiah details about his attackers.

  The old man was exhausted. ‘The hands that beat me had letters tattooed on the knuckles.’ He gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Jesus Saves.’

  ‘Could you identify the gentleman if you saw him?’