The Unfortunate Victim

by Greg Pyers

  ‘A good point, Detective Berliner,’ Nicolson conceded, ‘notwithstanding that we do have a man in custody already. But for now, the business of the day is to find and apprehend Rose, guilty or not.’ He turned to Walker. ‘Please, Detective, you were saying, where Rose was seen last?’

  ‘Yes, late morning of Thursday the 29th — the morning after the murder — by George Cheesbrough, at his farm, six miles north-east of here. He dismissed Rose, for being late rising that morning.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ Telford said with a wry smile, mirrored by Brady.

  ‘Maybe he was ill,’ Otto said, to make the point Telford seemed not to have grasped.

  Telford scoffed. ‘He ought to have been real ill, after what he’d done.’

  Here, Nicholson stepped out of the room, which encouraged Telford to speak uninhibitedly to Otto.

  ‘Well, do tell us, Detective Berliner. Who else could it be?’

  ‘Surely, Sergeant, you haven’t forgotten the man you put in the lock-up, charged with the same crime? You should be following that up; maybe Bonetti did do it.’

  Telford was suddenly speechless.

  ‘They could have been in concert,’ Reid said.

  ‘It is possible,’ Otto conceded, if only to model open-mindedness.

  ‘As for Rose,’ Reid continued, ‘I think it reasonable to surmise that he went to Cheesbrough’s to give himself an alibi, so that when the body was discovered he could claim he was nowhere near the place.’

  ‘I agree,’ Brady said. ‘He could have walked into town that night and been back in his bunk at Glenlyon by one or two. Easily.’

  Who was this Trooper Brady, Otto wondered, to be so certain of himself? Did he have a personal grievance with Rose? Or was he just an ambitious little tick?

  ‘It’s the rising late gives him away,’ Telford added, to a hear-hear from Brady.

  ‘Surely you have an opinion, Berliner?’ Reid said.

  ‘I do, Superintendent Reid. I say look at what the evidence says, not what you want it to say.’

  Nicolson was back in the room as Reid pressed. ‘What I mean, Detective Berliner, is do you have an opinion as to Rose’s guilt or innocence?’

  ‘Yes, I do, Superintendent.’

  ‘Hallelujah,’ Telford muttered. Reid gestured for Otto to explain.

  ‘I think it is important that we apprehend and question Rose, because he may well be Margaret Stuart’s killer. But frankly, I would be surprised if he were. Or, to put it another way, I wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t.’

  ‘Based on what?’ Reid said.

  ‘Experience. And what I have read about David Rose. Of course, I could be wrong. But as the superintendent has just observed, this bloody murder has provoked great passions in this town, and it is natural for good people to want to find and punish the killer, or killers. The danger, in my view — and I am not sorry to labour the point — is that in the desperation to have justice done, objectivity is lost. When objectivity is lost, justice is never done. We decide who killed Mrs Stuart, and we look for confirmation that we are right. This is bad police work. Yes, Trooper Brady, Rose may have had time to walk from Glenlyon to Daylesford and back; this does not mean he did —’

  ‘But he did ask Cheesbrough’s wife whether the dog would bark at late-night intruders,’ Walker said.

  ‘Yes, so what is your point, Detective?’

  Walker made a face to convey a small contempt for the question. ‘Well, Detective, it makes you think, doesn’t it? Rose was concerned about the dog waking its master when he returned home that night.’

  ‘Or else, Detective Walker, he was simply asking a question about the dog.’

  ‘Sir,’ Telford said, ‘with the greatest respect to the esteemed Detective Berliner, my experience as a policeman is that the best way to catch a criminal is not to sit around talking, but to get out, town to town, street to street, house to house, if necessary. The more time we take in talking, the further away Rose is. He could be in New South Wales by now.’

  ‘I agree,’ Brady said.

  Nicolson took charge. ‘Rest assured that if Rose is in New South Wales, he will be arrested there —’

  ‘How long has it been since the murder?’ Otto said. ‘Two weeks? I would think that, had he so chosen, David Rose could be anywhere in Australia by now.’

  Otto enjoyed that — enough to add, directing his attention to Telford, ‘So, a few minutes sitting in here talking is not so important, I think.’

  ‘Quite,’ Nicolson said, sparing Telford further embarrassment. The sergeant looked to the ceiling as Nicolson proceeded. ‘Now, gentlemen, I do know you feel the urgency; this murder has shocked and appalled us all, and the entire colony besides. And you are right, Sergeant, sitting in here isn’t catching a murderer —’

  This, Otto thought, was the kind of nonsense that typified the incompetence of the Victorian police, and it was coming from the top. Disregard clear thinking and strategy because the men are itching to get out and feel good chasing something. Were they police, or foxhounds?

  A slight, bespectacled man had appeared at the door. Otto knew who it would be. He hastened over, and was handed three sheets of paper. He thanked the man and rejoined the meeting, at a moment of the most perfect timing.

  ‘So, Detective Berliner,’ Nicolson said, ‘as the sergeant says, we are agreed; David Rose is merely a suspect. Now, your expertise has been called on to help with his apprehension. What do you suggest?’

  ‘May I say, firstly, that I am very pleased that Sergeant Telford and others are so eager to get out into the countryside to join in the search for Mr Rose. And I am eager to join him. But where shall we begin our house-to-house hunt? I shall tell you. Yesterday afternoon, before I had even left Melbourne, I made certain enquiries, via the telegraph — and here I acknowledge my associate at the Electric Telegraph Office for agreeing to accommodate me on a Sunday afternoon, for I have now, here in my hand, responses to those enquiries. And may I say how appreciative we should all be that these replies have been made so promptly, for they will greatly expedite our task.’

  Otto was enjoying himself, giving this lesson in first-class detective work. He waved the first sheet aloft.

  ‘This reply tells us that David Rose passed through Daylesford at around four o’clock on the afternoon of December 29th —’

  ‘Who says?’ Reid said.

  ‘Sir, good detective work depends on information, and accordingly I make it my business to cultivate mutually trusting relationships with certain reliable persons in the community. You would understand, I’m sure, why I would not breach a confidence.’

  Reid seemed a little put out. Otto held up a second sheet.

  ‘This attests to David Rose being camped at Blanket Flat that same night, and that the next morning he left to seek work, so he is meant to have said, around Mount Prospect.’

  Otto stepped forward to the table and the map thereon. ‘Therefore, I suggest, Sir, that we confine our search between this side of Creswick and Smeaton.’

  Nicolson nodded. ‘Fine work, Berliner, and I agree.’

  Otto acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He pocketed the telegraph replies. The third, he hadn’t read out — for now, in his judgement, was not the right time.

  Nicolson assigned officers in pairs to roads to be searched within the designated area, and by ten-thirty the men had mounted and were riding west down Albert Street. Bystanders watched the procession; some clapped and offered words of encouragement. In the public’s mind, these men were off to bring in the murderer.

  Otto was with Detective Williams, a man whose silence that morning he’d noted. Such men, Otto usually liked; they thought before they spoke, and said nothing if they had nothing to say. To Otto, equability was a fine quality in a detective, and Williams, with his calm manner and thoughtful countenance, seemed to have it.
The greying temples inspired confidence in Otto that this was a man of experience and judgement, a man he could rely on. And this assessment was only reinforced when Williams suggested to Otto that he ought to see the murder scene. It showed respect and courtesy, and more; it demonstrated a commitment to the detecting profession, for every crime scene is an opportunity to learn and improve.

  ‘The husband hasn’t stayed here since the night it happened,’ Williams said, dismounting and hitching his horse to a fence railing. ‘Who can be surprised? A house is not just a house once you know murder has gone on.’

  Otto looked up the short rise to the humblest of domiciles. A shed it was, practically, sitting there among the tree stumps. With a window either side of the door, it seemed to be looking back at him, like a dumb animal, or as if to say Nothing ever happened here that is of any import. Indeed, it was like so many other worker’s residences of the town, with their simple façades masking God knows what complicated lives within.

  They walked over the rough ground to the front door. Williams pushed it open and led the way in.

  ‘The vultures have been,’ he said, ‘and taken all the clothing, the crockery. There was even a crinoline in the bedroom. To think, some witch is wearing that beneath her skirts, bloodstained and all.’ He shook his head. ‘No shame.’

  Otto ran his practised eye over the walls and floor.

  ‘There was a meat safe here,’ Williams said, standing in the spot. ‘Walker first saw the pipe on top of it.’

  ‘What pipe?’

  ‘The pipe he thought belonged to George Stuart. It turns out Stuart had never seen it before.’

  ‘So it’s a vital piece of evidence.’

  ‘Yes. I came here on the fourth and took possession of it.’

  ‘The same pipe, was it, sitting here on the meat safe, unattended for a week?’

  ‘Walker said it was the same pipe.’

  ‘Of course. And where is it now?’

  ‘I gave it to Detective Walker.’

  Williams was unsettled by his colleague’s tone. But Otto was now examining the whitewashed walls of the fireplace.

  ‘These are supposed to be the marks of the corded trousers, I presume?’

  Williams came over to see.

  ‘I suppose. I can’t be sure.’

  ‘And there would have been soot all over the floor, a man having come down the chimney.’ Otto bent to brush his fingertips over the boards. He examined them. ‘No sign of any now. It’s all a bit late, of course.’ A feeling of some despair was taking hold in Otto’s chest as his suspicion grew that this investigation was not being conducted with the standards of diligence the crime warranted — the standards that he lived by. God knew what detail had been overlooked, misread, misconstrued, contaminated. For the likes of Walker and Telford, as long as they had something to chase, they could tell themselves they were making progress. But this Williams fellow seemed to know what he was doing. Yes, Otto reminded himself, he did have a tendency to take personal responsibility for everything. This wasn’t his case; he was in Daylesford for a specific task, and by the day’s end he might well have completed it. He couldn’t and shouldn’t try covering for the inadequacies of his colleagues. That way, crushing disappointment lay.

  He walked through into the bedroom. The bed stood stripped and askew.

  ‘These boards were pulled up?’

  ‘Walker did, I believe, looking for a knife. No luck.’

  ‘They drained the cess pit?’

  ‘There is none; the Stuarts used an old shaft a hundred yards off. I haven’t heard that it’s been searched.’

  Murder’s not important enough to get covered in shit for, Otto thought to say, but held his tongue. He saw the rent in the wallpaper at the head of the bed. A frenzied assault it must have been, for such a wild stab —

  Williams came in. ‘Gives you a chill, doesn’t it?’

  Otto looked at his colleague. ‘I think you’re probably a good detective, Williams, but some advice: eliminate the subjective. It’ll make you see things that aren’t there, and overlook things that are. It will lead you to false conclusions. It may well give you a chill to be in a room where a young woman met a violent and bloody death, but you’re a detective, not a poet.’

  Williams nodded, but Otto saw only puzzlement in his colleague’s eyes.

  ‘We should go, Williams. I’ve seen enough.’

  16

  10.00 A.M. TUESDAY 10th JANUARY

  DAYLESFORD COURT HOUSE

  DAVID ROSE STOOD IN the dock under the gaze of a crowd that had come to see a killer. Those not early enough to have made the opening-time dash for gallery seats remained outside, jostling and craning to watch the prisoner being escorted the fifty yards from the lock-up. They stared, as if at a fantastic ape captured from the wilds. But what they saw was a man: stout and thickset, with long and dense black hair and beard. His moustache was strangely formed of two patches either side of his shaved top lip, from which two teeth protruded just a little. He wore a coat of a dark imitation sealskin, with brown-braid binding, duck trousers, a belt with a large brass buckle, and a billycock-hat with ventilators. He walked round-shouldered in heavy, lace-up shoes. He was agitated, looking around him, this way and that, as he was still when Magistrate Drummond called order for proceedings to get underway.

  Superintendent Reid rose to inform the court that the prisoner had been apprehended the day before, on Monday the 9th, and asked for a remand of seven days.

  ‘The arrest was made by Trooper Henry Brady?’

  ‘Yes, Your Worship.’

  Drummond directed Brady to stand and give an account of the arrest.

  Otto Berliner watched the young constable rise with a triumphal swagger. He was proud, all right, but what had he done other than follow orders arising out of timely telegrams? The gallery wouldn’t know this, of course, nor much care, probably. To them, the capture of the murderous Rose was largely due to the resourcefulness and persistence of this fine, brave young policeman. Action was something the layman could understand and applaud; the subtle strategy behind it was never so appreciated. It was a disheartening reality that made Otto only too glad to be leaving for Melbourne on the four o’clock coach.

  ‘I arrested the prisoner at about two o’clock yesterday afternoon in the neighbourhood of Kingston, sixteen or eighteen miles from here.’

  So, Otto thought, no mention of his partner, Wilkinson. It spoke to character whether or not a man acknowledged his partners, Otto believed.

  ‘You’ve been in pursuit of the prisoner since when?’ Stanbridge asked.

  ‘Since December 29th, Your Worship.’

  That would be nearly two weeks, then, Otto calculated. And how long after the arrival of Detective Berliner did you apprehend Mr Rose? he thought the magistrate might ask, though he could work that out for himself. Otto reckoned twelve hours, maybe even eleven. But Brady was now describing the arrest, and, in Otto’s opinion, in rather more detail than was necessary.

  ‘The place was a mile or three miles off the road, about a mile south of Hepburn’s lagoon, in a paddock full of scrub. He was sitting on a log, though he removed from that whilst I was crossing a creek. When I got up to him, I jumped off my horse and caught hold of him. I passed my hand round his throat.’ Brady here demonstrated the hold on himself. ‘I said, “I have been looking a long time for you.” I said, “I arrest you on a charge of murdering Mrs Stuart, of Daylesford.” I told him not to say anything that would be brought against him.’

  ‘And how did the prisoner respond?’

  ‘He seemed astonished at the charge. He said, “Do I look like a murderer?”’

  Otto looked at Rose. What does the prisoner think a murderer might look like, he wondered? No one in the gallery would have had any doubt. Yes, the man in the dock looked like a murderer: unkempt, unrefined, brutish, not o
ne of them. They would be blind to the childlike incomprehension in his face, the sheer incomprehension that he should find himself standing there.

  Brady continued ‘… he had a large swag with him. Inside I found a butcher’s knife and a razor. I remarked that there was a stain on the razor, and he said it had got wet in the swag. I found the following things in his swag: some bedding, a tent, a quantity of tattered garments, trousers, shirt, a frying pan, a billy can, three pipes, and £5 7s. 6d. in cash, including a five-pound note.’

  ‘And on his person?’

  ‘In his pocket he had a pocket knife and another pipe.’

  ‘And he admitted that he was the man who lived in the tent near the deceased woman’s cottage?’

  ‘He did, Your Worship. And that he had spoken to her.’

  Drummond indicated to Brady to stand down. ‘Remand is granted for seven days. Return the prisoner to the cell.’

  Otto Berliner watched Rose, and saw a man at the edge of his very limited wits, unable even to ask a question that might bring him some degree of understanding of how he had come to be in such a predicament. Except perhaps that he had found himself in such predicaments throughout his life. He was an ex-convict, after all, as the reply to the third telegram had confirmed, transported to Van Diemen’s Land at sixteen for house-breaking. But this was murder, and the punishment was to be sent on a journey a good deal shorter: a drop at the end of a rope. Otto had sympathy for the fellow. Murderer or not, no evidence had been presented; he’d just pitched a tent near the deceased’s home, and had spoken to her shortly before her demise. Remand was simply at the convenience of the police, to keep the man handy while evidence could be gathered. But if smiles and laughter were an indication, this was good enough for the gallery. Its tiered rows of citizens were filing out now, certain that Daylesford was a safer town with David Rose locked away. Had everyone forgotten about Serafino Bonetti?

  Otto stood. It was approaching noon, and lunch presented as the best idea. Across the room he saw Drummond still seated at the bench, and talking with Nicolson and a familiar face of old acquaintance: that carunculated relic, Pearson Thompson. My God, Otto thought, he’s still got a shingle out. He wondered whether he should go over and shake hands with his old adversary. The man had been gentleman enough to congratulate him on the guilty verdict for the Tibbets murder, after all. Thompson had put up a reasonably stiff defence for his client, but really, his strong suit was drunken prostitutes and petty thieves, for whom over the years he had spared much time behind bars. It was too late for handshakes now, anyway; Nicolson had joined them, and all three promptly repaired to the magistrate’s room, whereupon the door was shut behind them.