Clockwork Gold

by Jenny Schwartz

  “Pig,” she said under her breath. “I don’t like that man.”

  “No, you made that obvious.”

  “Well,” she said impatiently when he didn’t move. “You wanted to see the town.”

  “Hmm. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Fine. I’ve got Harry’s tonic. We can drop it into him, then fly on to Tiger Snake Mine. The men there appreciate someone writing letters to their families back in Ireland. Nearly half their small town came out here for the gold rush. They’re doing all right, too. They’re talking of sending for their women and kids.”

  “You like them?”

  “They’re good men. Family men.”

  He nodded as if he’d reached a decision. “I’ll stay in town. You can collect me, tomorrow.”

  “You’re kidding?” She was appalled, chilled to the bone, as if the Blue Wren had flown into a bucketing thunderstorm.

  “According to Aunt Louise you don’t fly a set route, so you can return without any problems. I can pay for your fuel if you like.”

  “I can pay for my own fuel. My point was why the change of heart? You were intent on staying with me before.”

  “You could say Sergeant Poole made the town sound too alluring to ignore.”

  She snorted. “Sergeant Poole, your new best friend, won’t be staying in town. He’s scheduled to trek out to Germantown, tomorrow.”

  “How do you know?”

  Hastily she lowered her eyelids, aware that the lashes fluttered when she was nervous, or contemplating a lie. She knew the sergeant’s movements for a very good reason—a reason she’d almost forgotten, as she’d been half-convinced to let Nathan into the secret of her plot. Now, she hesitated. “Sue mentioned it this morning.”

  “And how would Sue know?”

  “Is this an inquisition?”

  “Call me curious. How would Sue know?”

  “Her extended family covers a lot of ground in the Goldfields. News travels fast. Especially bad news.” She could have bitten her tongue for that last, sardonic addition.

  Fortunately, Nathan seemed more intent on watching the sergeant’s progress through town than in picking up her snide commentary. Men in the dirty clothes of miners nodded respectfully to the policeman. Men in the better clothes of prosperous townsmen greeted him with handshakes and smiles. It was a triumphal progress. “What was it about Sergeant Poole that riled you so?”

  Anger rose, vile and violent. “He’s a whited sepulchre. I can smell the stink of rottenness each time I see his starched uniform. Prosing on about ladies and good behaviour. He extorts money from the newcomers, the ones that don’t speak English and won’t fight back. He works hand in glove with the brothel keepers. He—”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  The question jerked her out of her rage. The cold in her bones intensified as she saw the distant, assessing look in Nathan’s eyes. This wasn’t the same man who’d laughed and wooed her. The man she’d thought to trust.

  “No proof,” she said. “None of his victims dare speak up. And they’re right. Who would take their word against the sergeant’s?”

  “You made your opinion of him fairly clear. Sergeant Poole must know that you, for one, believe his victims.”

  “Yes.” She was still tempted to tell him Annie’s story, to hope that he’d believe her when Dad wouldn’t.

  “Then he’ll want to discredit you before you have a chance to assemble a case against him.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to challenge him?”

  “Becky, how long have we known each other?” He took her arm and began escorting her back to the Blue Wren.

  “Fifteen years.”

  “In that time, have you ever let an injustice pass by unnoticed? Have you ever failed to think of a scheme?” He was on a roll. “And you’ve grown more devious with the years. Initially, you favoured a direct hit. Ian Davis,” he added when she opened her mouth to protest.

  “He deserved it, telling that little Indian girl she stank. She didn’t. She was clean and sweet.”

  “And you were two inches shorter and one year younger, but you punched Ian on the nose.”

  “He went running home to his mum,” she remembered with satisfaction. “I liked Mrs Davis. When she found out why I’d punched her son, she wouldn’t give him dessert for a month and she made him apologise to us girls.”

  “A happy ending.” Nathan appeared to pick his words carefully. “But life isn’t a school playground.”

  “Bullies have to be confronted regardless.”

  “Sometimes there’s a line between bullying and authority that’s solely in the eye of the beholder.”

  She puzzled that over in silence till they reached the airfield. “You’re saying you don’t believe me. You’re another man defending Sergeant Poole.” Her disappointment was sharp. “I’ve heard all the arguments. How frontier justice is rough by definition. How there are two sides to every story, and that I only hear the sob stories. How the sergeant keeps a lid on a powder keg, with all those miners just itching to whoop it up. It’s rubbish. The man is rotten.”

  “Whatever he is, the best thing you can do is to stay out of his way.”

  The hint of command poured vinegar into her wounded sense of betrayal. She had thought to trust Nathan, but here he was, siding with the enemy. Protecting Sergeant Poole.

  Suddenly she ceased lagging behind and strode through the airfield. She deactivated the Blue Wren’s defences, climbed the ladder and dropped Nathan’s valise over-board, not bothering to lower it safely. It landed with a thud at his feet.

  He tilted his head back to look up at her. “It’s for the best.”

  She blew a raspberry.

  An unwilling, wary grin transformed his face back into the boy and man she’d known. There was affection in his look—but none of that mattered if he didn’t trust her and her judgement.

  It was just as well he’d decided to stay in town. Now she had the chance she needed to put her plan into action. Stubbornly, she decided that it was for the best.

  “You’ll return for me, tomorrow, won’t you, Becky?”

  She retracted the ladder.

  “Becky!”

  “You’ll be fine in town.”

  “I’ll see you, tomorrow,” he said definitely, and picked up his valise. He wove through the chaos of the airfield with the ease, and isolation, of a seasoned traveller.

  People observed him, then slanted sly looks back at her on the Blue Wren. A constable lounging at the edge of the field straightened and moved to intercept Nathan.

  Rebecca’s hands clenched on the rail of the dirigible. Sergeant Poole wasn’t wasting any time in making sure of Nathan’s support. “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Eight

  From the window of his room in the Dickens Hotel, Nathan watched the Blue Wren’s smooth ascent. He hated letting Becky fly off alone, but she was safer away from town. There was a lot more than professional suspicion in the way Sergeant Poole looked at her. There was a sly and vicious desire to hurt. Nathan had encountered bullies before, and the hail-fellow-well-met variety were the most insidious. They could turn a community rotten.

  Just how deep was the rot in Kalgoorlie?

  The constable who’d too casually joined him on his walk back into town had been Nathan’s age. Old enough to have made sergeant, if he’d cared to. Instead the man mooched along, with little sense of the dignity of his uniform. The brass buttons were unpolished, the boots dusty. Nathan had left him at the entrance to the hotel. The constable would report his presence to Sergeant Poole.

  The hotel room was bare but clean. A single bed, wash basin, wooden chair and rail on which to hang one’s clothes. Thin curtains covered the windows.

  The Blue Wren vanished, heading south east, returning to Harry’s mining claim and then on to the Tiger Snake Mine. He let the curtains fall. As much as he wished he was with Becky, he needed to be here.

  His years in service to the Crown
had honed his instincts, not merely for lies, but for that extra something that indicated trouble with a capital T—and this time, Becky was in the middle of it.

  He dug through his valise.

  The empty hotel room had the dreariness of its kind. He was familiar with them in all their manifestations: tidy, dirty, safe, deadly. He’d cleaned and bandaged knife wounds in hotel rooms from London to Singapore.

  His was a transient life. The only steady point had been the Tanners’ home here in Western Australia, and even then, without Becky, it wouldn’t have been home.

  The pistol slipped into his hand with the comfort of familiarity. He buckled on the holster and closed the valise. With his wallet in an inside pocket and his knife in the boot sheath, an inquisitive thief would find nothing of value left behind in the room.

  The letters he’d written from around the world to Aunt Louise had been for Becky—a way of keeping a tie between them, of saying “remember me”. But now he had the promise of more than memories, he had the chance of a future with Becky, and he was damned if Sergeant Poole or the devil himself, would take that from him.

  Not that he was going to underestimate the sergeant.

  Isolated communities—and the Goldfields, indeed all of Western Australia, definitely qualified as isolated—could develop a strange twist. Without outside influences, their oddness could build on itself. Wrong could become right.

  It was interesting that the chemist showed respect for Becky. How much could her disparagement of Sergeant Poole influence the town? If she was a challenge to the bully’s power, Poole would act against her.

  Nathan closed the door quietly behind him and walked down the uncarpeted corridor to the stairs.

  Becky still saw herself as the poor girl she’d been years ago. She didn’t seem to realise that she and the Blue Wren were something of a legend. Her daring and engineering skills compelled respect. Then again, there were some people who loved nothing more than to tear down a legend, especially if she was a woman. He hadn’t missed the envy in the eyes of the women dining in the Ladies Lounge. Becky had the sort of courage that made other people dissatisfied with their small lives.

  As he descended the stairs, he reluctantly put aside thoughts of his sweetheart and concentrated on the role he’d play. He’d already set the scene with Sergeant Poole. He was here on holidays; a man in search of relaxation and entertainment. Perhaps he’d catch up with old friends or make new ones.

  He crossed the foyer and entered the public bar.

  He needed to see how the town operated. Where were the lines of loyalty and allegiance? Where were the fault lines where trouble would develop?

  Rebecca frowned.

  The trouble with Nathan was that he was darned elusive. He hadn’t actually answered why his sudden change of mind and the decision to stay in town. Instead, he’d side-tracked her into a discussion of her behaviour—and given the command that she should stay out of Sergeant Poole’s way.

  “Sneaky.” Rebecca piloted the Blue Wren on instinct as she worried over Nathan’s behaviour and tried to ignore her underlying emotion. She felt hurt. Betrayed. She’d been on the point of trusting him with Annie’s story, but he’d sided with the other men, including her dad.

  “The situation’s complicated, Rebecca.” Her dad’s words, trying to make her accept his opinion, his support for Sergeant Poole. “There are thousands of men in the Goldfields. They’ve poured in from anywhere. They’re desperate men, chasing dreams of fortunes while they scrabble for survival. The Goldfields are a powder keg just waiting for a spark. Sergeant Poole keeps a dampener on it. You mightn’t agree with how he works.” Sam had hesitated. “Let the man do his job.”

  “Ha.” She steered the Blue Wren in a wide circle around the Mail Coach blimp. Those casual pilots weren’t up to the job of controlling the unwieldy cargo airships. One had crashed just a week ago, taking out a house near the airfield in Fremantle, the coastal port. The pilot had survived, albeit with broken bones.

  She headed for the open skies over the Goldfields, the space where the miners wouldn’t hesitate to shoot any airship other than the Blue Wren. They knew she wouldn’t spy on them. Claim jumpers were a legitimate threat out here, but she brought the miners news of the wider world and she was their lifeline. The Blue Wren could transport a passenger in need of medical treatment.

  What they really needed was a way to contact her that was more reliable than hoping she’d be flying near enough to see a red distress flag. Telegraph wires to every mining claim was hardly practicable.

  And she was an idiot. Worrying away at practical problems—inventing things—was her way of avoiding emotional conflict. In this instance, thoughts of Nathan.

  Below the Blue Wren, the land fled away as she pushed the airship to its fastest speed. But problems couldn’t be outrun or ignored. You had to face them. So she would.

  Start with Nathan. He liked her. He’d kissed her. She’d never felt so wooed and wanted.

  And she liked him back.

  Now that he’d dismissed her fears that he despised her for the childhood trick, she could admit that he’d always been the standard against which she measured all other men. He commanded people’s respect. He was clever, funny, kind, and brave.

  The Blue Wren slowed as she contemplated Nathan’s perfections. He was so handsome. When you were close to him, you could see the trace of the freckles he’d had as a kid. His hazel eyes, green with emotion, grey when he was cool and detached, had laughter lines at the corners. When they crinkled up in amusement, she wanted to kiss him.

  But he’d looked at her with cool, grey eyes and said she should leave Sergeant Poole alone.

  “I can’t.” Her promise to the memory of Annie meant she had to act. Everything was in place.

  And Nathan hadn’t believed her accusations against the sergeant, so she was on her own.

  She saw Harry’s shack and brought the airship down to a steady hover. She wouldn’t be staying. Fortunately, he’d be underground and she wouldn’t ring the bell to call him up.

  Harry’s dog, Blue, ran up to her as she ignored the mine and walked across to the shack. She patted the dog and tucked the bottle of tonic inside the Coolgardie safe. The “safe” was a simple food store. The wire cage hung high off the frame of the shack, safe from ants and other marauders. Hessian sacking, heavy with water, cooled the food inside it via the wind blowing wet air through the cage.

  The dog’s eagerness for company reminded her how lonely the site was.

  If she travelled on to Tiger Snake mine the men would welcome her with laughter and talk. There would be an attempt at a special meal. They were isolated enough to treasure visitors.

  But she wouldn’t be flying there.

  She climbed back into the Blue Wren. The truth was, she didn’t want to meet anyone. She wanted the freedom to be alone and contemplate the consequences of what she intended to do. Those consequences had suddenly grown huge.

  Nathan would see her plan to avenge Annie as more than disobeying his command to stay away from Sergeant Poole. That could be forgiven.

  She sighed as the airship rose.

  Nathan was a smart man. When she went ahead with her plan, he’d know what it meant: that she hadn’t trusted him to deal with the underlying situation.

  She didn’t know if his pride and their tenuous new relationship could survive that test.

  Chapter Nine

  Nathan finished his dinner and accepted his dining companions’ invitation to continue the evening at the Pelican Pub. An afternoon spent strolling around the town had proved profitable. His very idleness prompted others to engage him in conversation. He heard about the price of gold, bank security, the need for more fresh water, rumours of lucky strikes and the best brothel to visit. He’d let two men he knew distantly invite him to dinner.

  Robert Irwin was a builder and a Justice of the Peace, a good few years older than Nathan, and a friend of Uncle Sam’s. The other man was John Ulster, a couple o
f years younger than Nathan, the son of a prosperous farmer, but, as far as Nathan could tell, not inclined to work himself. It was odd to find them in company, together.

  Unless Sergeant Poole had decided he wanted to learn more about Nathan—and control what and where he went in town, and who he spoke with.

  Nathan let himself be shepherded, but he cast a wistful look at the night sky. The stars hung low, as if a man could stretch out a hand and scoop a ribbon of them for his sweetheart.

  He could have been camped out with Becky, watching her face in the firelight, telling stories, listening to her sing. She had to be coaxed, but her voice was sweet and true, husky when she sung the sentimental ballads Aunt Louise enjoyed.

  The wind brought the scent of the bush sweeping through the town, mingling with cooking smells, coal smoke and cheap beer. John Ulster pushed open the door to the pub. The tinkling, soulless sound of a player piano spilled out.

  Just as eager to spill out were the up-lifted, tightly corseted breasts of the garishly dressed prostitutes. Their dresses were of cheap satin, harshly glittering in the light of the paraffin lamps. They were posed around the room, leaning in and stroking men who showed willing. One lead a young man up the stairs, whistled on by the catcalls of his mates.

  “So you took my advice…about the Pelican Pub.” Sergeant Poole loomed up. “Let me buy you a drink?”

  “Thank you.” Nathan had long ago shed the old cultural inhibition about sharing bread (or drink) with a man you distrusted. Years of service to the Crown had taught him to allow it. The men thought it meant you were buying their lies.

  He toasted Sergeant Poole and the other men crowding around, and set himself to listen and observe. Their table was in a corner. Reserved, clearly, for the sergeant who occupied it and surveyed the room in the manner of a benign despot. A flick of one beefy finger dismissed Ulster and Irwin. They’d done their job and delivered Nathan to the sergeant. Their place was taken by a lawyer, a journalist and a banker.