To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5

by Peter Watt

  Schumann clasped his hands behind his back and stared hard at Alex. ‘I feel that you should wait a while longer before planning to wed my daughter, and I am sure that her mother would feel the same way. After all, they are both travelling to Sydney in September when you could see my daughter under proper chaperoned circumstances. I do not ask much.’

  Alex was forced to concede to Giselle’s father’s wishes. Much of what he said made sense but his desire to be with the young woman still over-rode reasoning. ‘I take it that you do not grant your blessing on my proposal,’ Alex said flatly. ‘But I do accept your logic.’

  ‘I am sorry, Herr Macintosh,’ Schumann said sympathetically. ‘You are a fine young man and under other circumstances I might have celebrated your desire for marriage to my daughter but for now I feel you have not known each other long enough and the present state of world politics may interfere with your relationship. You cannot forget that my daughter is a German citizen.’

  ‘But she was born in Australia,’ Alex countered.

  ‘That may be so,’ Schumann responded. ‘However, by German law she is also a citizen of the German Empire. I am sorry, Herr Macintosh, but come again to me in a year’s time and tender your case for my daughter’s hand then.’

  Alex let out a deep sigh, turned and walked out of the office to where Giselle waited with an intense expression of anticipation on her face. With a sad look and shake of his head, Alex answered her unspoken question, causing the young woman to burst into tears.

  ‘Papa, how could you refuse my happiness?’ she sobbed, brushing past Alex to rush into her father’s office. When Alex looked across the room he could see Giselle’s mother standing at the door, a sympathetic expression on her face. They nodded to each other before she turned to walk away.

  Giselle spent the night crying in her mother’s arms, while Alex lay on his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling in a state of despair. He slept very little and when the house came alive with the sounds of servants arguing, a rooster crowing and the banter of plantation workers outside his window he rose.

  When Alex ambled into the dining room he was met by the solemn faces of his two friends who looked up from their plates piled with fresh bacon and eggs.

  ‘I gather things did not go well last night,’ Matthew said gently as Alex slumped in a chair at the table. The housemaid attempted to place a plate in front of him but he waved her off, reaching for the coffee pot. ‘How did you know that?’ he asked in a dull voice.

  ‘Hard not to hear the sobbing of a distraught young woman into the early hours of the morning,’ Matthew answered. ‘I am sorry, old chap. I guessed that your late night meeting with our host was to ask for Miss Schumann’s hand in marriage.’

  ‘You guessed correctly,’ Alex answered, pouring a cup of hot coffee. He reached for the jug of fresh cream. ‘Mr Schumann feels that we have not known each other long enough and that the world is in so much of a mess it would not be wise to wed until everything sorts itself out.’

  ‘He has a point there,’ Bob observed, entering the conversation with a shrug. ‘After all, why are we really here?’

  Alex glanced at the New Zealander. He had a point. After all, part of the reason for anchoring off the Schumann plantation was to conceal their cargo and then proceed to Rabaul. He was forced to remind himself that the aim of their voyage was to spy on German territory. But his feelings for Giselle were quickly taking precedence over the military mission, and he had to remind himself that the lives of the two men at the table with him were in his hands.

  ‘At least one thing was resolved last night,’ Alex sighed, sipping his coffee. ‘Herr Schumann has agreed to provide us with storage space for the BE.2. We can unload today.’

  ‘What did you tell him would be in the crates?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Machinery parts,’ Alex answered, wiping his lips with a linen napkin. ‘I do not doubt that he will accept my word, considering I have conceded to his wish to delay any plans of marriage.’

  ‘I am sorry that it did not work out with the wedding plans,’ Matthew said. ‘But, I think that you two are fated to be together one day.’

  Alex did not reply. There were more ways of being together than simply seeking the permission of a father for his daughter’s hand. There was such a thing as eloping and, like a good military planner, he was already considering that option.

  Sean Duffy had been summoned to the bridge for a meeting. The ship’s captain had been visited by representatives of the American police hours earlier, inquiring into one of the passengers, a Miss Fiona Owens. Although the captain was fully acquainted with the rules of the sea he wished to seek advice from the man he knew was a lawyer regarding police rights to come aboard and take by force – if necessary – one of his passengers.

  ‘Well, Captain Howard, that is an interesting question,’ Sean had replied. ‘I doubt that even the Americans have the right to forcefully disembark a non citizen of their country from an English-registered ship. May I ask why they wish to take Miss Owens into their custody?’

  The captain was a stout but solid man in his early fifties with piercing grey eyes and a reputation among his crew for strict discipline. ‘It seems, Mr Duffy, that they have information that Miss Owens is wanted by the Sydney police on a murder charge under her real name of Fenella Macintosh, who I have been informed is an actress of some talent.’

  Sean felt his blood run cold. He was aware of Fenella’s true identity but did not believe she could be capable of a premeditated murder. ‘I am afraid that the American police have been misled on Miss Owen’s identity,’ Sean lied. ‘I have known Miss Owens – and her family – for many years and can swear to that fact.’

  ‘If I allow the police to take Miss Owens in for questioning I am sure that they will also come to that conclusion,’ Captain Howard said.

  ‘That is true,’ Sean agreed. ‘But, if you allow that to happen I am sure that Miss Owens – whose family are of considerable influence in the Australian shipping trade – would take your concession to the American police as a terrible slur on their name and take appropriate legal action for damages.’

  ‘I must admit that I am not aware of the Owens name in our business,’ Howard said. ‘But I have heard of your uncle’s fine legal reputation from friends who have had dealings with him. I am sure you are right and that I should deny the police rights to come aboard and take Miss Owens.’

  ‘To keep in goodwill with the American authorities,’ Sean offered, ‘I can represent Miss Owen’s interests and personally meet with whoever is in charge of the investigation in Pearl Harbour. I am sure I will be able to clear up any misunderstandings and at the same time keep Miss Owen’s family from any scandal that might cause recriminations against your shipping line.’ Sean could see that the liner’s captain was eager for a way out of this awkward situation and would seize on any reasonable offer made.

  ‘Your idea has merit, Mr Duffy,’ he replied. ‘I know you will speak with Miss Owens and sort out the matter with the Americans.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain,’ Sean said, realising that he was sweating as much from the warm day as he was from tension. It had been touch and go and now he must warn Fenella of the unexpected development in port.

  Sean met Fenella on the upper deck where she stood by the rail gazing over the busy Pacific port. Huge American warships and smaller commercial vessels crisscrossed between the pretty inlets. Fenella turned to him but her smile faded when she saw the worried expression etched on his face. ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked as he approached.

  ‘The American police have spoken with Captain Howard,’ he replied. ‘It seems that they wish to take you into custody.’

  ‘You know that I had nothing to do with Guy’s death,’ Fenella said softly. ‘I cannot afford to be taken home in chains, as they say. It would bring shame to my father.’

  ‘I understand,’ Sean answered. ‘Although I have not met your father personally I do know how highly my family thinks of him. I g
uess you could say that as extended family it is my duty to protect you now.’

  Fenella reached out to take Sean’s hand. ‘I think God sent you to me as a guardian angel,’ she said sweetly but with sincerity, although Sean was not sure if he was hearing the words of a good actress or the woman herself. ‘You are in my prayers every day for all that you have done for me.’

  Sean froze. Over Fenella’s shoulder he recognised the walk of plain clothes police officers. No matter what country they came from the demeanour seemed to be the same. ‘Miss Fenella Macintosh,’ one of the tough-looking men said, holding up an identity badge. ‘We have a warrant to arrest you.’

  17

  Officer Amos Devine had the kind of face that reflected the clientele he policed. It was tough and battlescarred from years of dealing with unruly American sailors on shore leave. He had been born into a share-cropping family in Georgia and had escaped the poverty of the cotton fields by shipping over to Hawaii, where he was recruited into the island’s police force. Now he had been told by some Limey ship captain that he could not take one of the passengers from the ship temporarily in port on its voyage to San Francisco. He had brushed aside the captain’s objections to find the woman wanted by the police in Sydney, Australia.

  ‘You Miss Fenella Macintosh?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ Sean demanded, placing himself between them. The American policeman stared hard at the young Australian lawyer.

  ‘If you don’t step aside, buddy,’ the tough police officer snarled, ‘then you can join Miss Macintosh downtown in the cells.’

  Sean wisely moved back, realising that he was both out of his depth and jurisdiction with the police officer. Fenella had not even identified herself when the American reached out to grip her wrist and it seemed that he did not care if she owned up to who she was or not. He had a job to do and seemingly liked the idea of throwing his weight around when it came to dealing with foreigners – especially Limeys. ‘Just come with us, without any fuss.’

  ‘Let go of me,’ Fenella flared. ‘My name is Fiona Owens and I am a citizen of Australia.’

  ‘I don’t care if you are a citizen of Timbuktu,’ Devine growled, reaching behind his back to retrieve a set of handcuffs. ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s up to you.’

  Fenella looked at Sean with desperation in her eyes but he shook his head, warning her to cooperate for the moment.

  ‘Do as they say, Fiona,’ he cautioned. ‘And I will organise to have you released immediately.’

  Fenella relaxed slightly, knowing that Sean would attempt to carry out his promise.

  ‘Wise move, lady,’ Devine said, leaving the handcuffs tucked into his belt near his holstered pistol. ‘You can sort out any problems down at the station.’

  With these parting words, Devine and his offsider escorted Fenella along the deck to the gangplank. Sean watched them walk away, his mind racing as to how he would get Fenella out of the custody of the American police. He realised that his task was almost impossible and wondered at the modern power of communications that the police in Hawaii could be waiting for her when the liner docked. He cursed the arrogance of the Yanks for their total disregard of an Australian’s citizen’s rights.

  Sean turned and hurried to his cabin. He had work to do.

  On a winter’s day in Sydney George Macintosh stood with his hands in his pockets against the cold. The meeting had been arranged through a note delivered to his office in Kent Street and he felt that it was not going to be in his favour. He watched as his contact strolled along a pathway bordered by flower beds until he reached George.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Macintosh,’ Maynard Bosch greeted, his hands also in his pockets.

  ‘What is this all about?’ George snapped, attempting to take the high ground in his dealings with the assistant to the German consul.

  ‘Your information concerning your brother’s plans appears to have been somewhat erroneous,’ Bosch replied, staring across the park at a flock of pigeons strutting under the cloudy skies. ‘I would like to know why.’

  George shoved his hands deeper in his trouser pockets. ‘It seems that I am under suspicion in my dealings with you,’ he replied. ‘In turn, I suspect that you have problems with your security.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Bosch frowned. ‘Who has raised this with you?’

  ‘My father,’ George answered. ‘He has not directly accused me of spying but I know he has doubts about my loyalty to the Empire.’

  ‘I can vouch that there have been no security breaches on our side,’ Bosch shrugged. ‘But I am here to see what you may know about the fact your brother’s ship has not arrived off our eastern coast as you originally informed us it would.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ George answered. ‘From what I could find in the papers that my father so carelessly leaves in his desk, the last report he received was that our ship had docked in Port Moresby last week. There’s been nothing else since. However, if I am under suspicion of treachery, my father would have taken measures to conceal anything else about the mission into your territory.’

  Bosch kicked at a pebble on the ground with his toe. ‘It is imperative that you endeavour to find out what has happened to your ship and report immediately back to me. Otherwise your investments in Germany may be jeopardised in the event of a war between us. I have information that you have banked a lot of money without your father’s knowledge of our industries. You have a lot to lose.’

  ‘I do have something up my sleeve that might help,’ George said, realising that if the Germans reneged on the deal to give his investments favoured treatment it could cost the family companies a lot of money.

  ‘Then I will hear from you within twenty-four hours,’ Bosch said. ‘That is all the time we have if we are to embarrass the British government in these uncertain times.’

  ‘You will ensure that you keep your word to have my brother meet an unfortunate accident?’ George countered.

  Bosch tensed. ‘That was our deal,’ he replied. ‘Just get us the information before tomorrow. I will bid you a good afternoon, Mr Macintosh.’

  With his parting words, the assistant consul continued his stroll through the park at the heart of Sydney, the bitter taste of murder in his mouth.

  George knew that his father would drop into the office that afternoon. When his personal assistant told him that his father was in the building George informed him that he wished to meet with his father in his office.

  Within minutes, Patrick appeared and was ushered in. His son greeted him, closing the door behind his father and gesturing to a leather chair for guests.

  ‘Do we have a confidential business matter to discuss?’ Patrick queried, noticing the way his son closed the door behind him.

  ‘No,’ George replied, removing a bottle of whisky from a side cabinet and producing two crystal tumblers. ‘I was hoping that you may have news of my brother and sister. How is Mr Gates going with his investigations?’

  Patrick accepted the glass. ‘Mr Gates seems to have hit a brick wall,’ Patrick sighed, sipping the whisky. ‘He has questioned just about everyone known to Nellie and so far no luck. I have authorised him to use an account to fund his expenses in continuing with his search.’

  ‘Good,’ George lied. He was at a loss to know what had happened to his sister, although he hoped it had been something very bad. ‘I noticed the authorisation go through this office.’

  Patrick glanced at his son and realised just how closely he monitored anything to do with the business management. Was he using that same acute sense for detail to monitor what he could glean from his military activities? The answer made Patrick uncomfortable. He still could not bring himself to consider his eldest son a traitor. ‘And as for your brother’s whereabouts,’ Patrick said, ‘I suspect that we will hear from him soon enough.’

  ‘I need to make urgent contact with him,’ George said, walking to a large window that looked down over the street and across rooftops to the harbour. �
��Is there no way of learning of his position at sea?’

  ‘What is so urgent that you need to make contact with your brother?’ Patrick asked. ‘After all, he is simply working to expand our trade in German territory.’

  ‘I know that,’ George replied, forcing himself not to lose his temper. ‘But I still have a need to contact him.’

  ‘Why would that be?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘There has been a development,’ George answered, turning to face his father, the whisky untouched in his glass. ‘A deal has cropped up in Rabaul that we cannot afford to let slip out of our hands for a cargo of sisal. It is important that Alex direct the company trader to get there as soon as possible and I need to be able to reach him immediately to let him know the details.’

  ‘I was not lying when I said I do not know your brother’s exact whereabouts,’ Patrick answered. ‘And even if I did, I think you must understand why I could not reveal what I might know.’

  ‘You do not trust me?’ George scowled. ‘Do I not keep our business interests in the black? Do you suspect me of being a traitor to my country?’

  Patrick waved off the questions. ‘Both you and I know that Alex works closely with me for the interest of the regiment and his country,’ he said. ‘I would prefer that you have no involvement in that part of my life and work only to keep the family businesses running. Otherwise, you may leave yourself open to accusations of treason from certain parties.’

  ‘You mean your friend, Colonel Hughes,’ George said with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘Do you put more stock in what he thinks than me, your son?’

  ‘It is not that,’ Patrick attempted to defend himself. ‘I love you as a father loves his son, but sometimes I admit to myself that I hardly know you.’

  ‘Probably because you spend all your time with Alexander,’ George said, taking a long swig from his whisky. ‘And yet it is I who has put my neck on the chopping block to lie for you if the police come knocking about Wilkes’ murder.’