Seizing her moment, she ducked out from under Craigie.
‘Jeeesusss Kerrroist!’ he swore in Scots-English, and lunged forward to grab her, only to fall heavily against the Verdelho. In his fury, he smashed the trestle supporting the hogshead. The fifty-gallon cask was sent crashing to the ground, narrowly missing him. The French oak timbers creaked at the impact and, for a moment, held their breach. But the pressure from without and the pressure from within was too great: in a mighty sundering of wood, the side of the cask burst open, and fifty gallons of fortified dessert wine, labelled Verdelho, cascaded over Craigie.
Ellen watched, awe-struck by the spectacle – the damage she had caused. Then the fumes of the spilling wine rose to her nostrils. Only this was not the honey-sweet bouquet of Verdelho.
Before she could gather her senses sufficiently to identify the smell, she heard Craigie, still gasping with pain, shout: ‘I knew it! I knew it! I’ll have that bastard Coombes now! Him and his Irish whores – I’ll fix him for good! By God I will! There’ll be no more Distillation Acts in this province – George Alderton Craigie will see to that!’
She turned to go. But before leaving the cellar, she bent down and stuck a finger in the sticky liquid at her feet. Then she raised the finger to her lips.
It was not Verdelho. It was pure spirit, distilled for illicit sale.
It was Brandy.
34
Ellen awoke next morning to the sound of loud banging on her door. Coombes, she thought. Well, she was ready for him, no matter what the consequences. Craigie had obviously been led to expect a more compliant response from her. The reaction he got must have come as quite a surprise; she recalled with some satisfaction the look of disbelief on the Scot’s face as he picked himself up off the floor, drenched in Coombes’ illicit brandy. At least he’d smell better now.
Coombes would have hell to pay now. Her set-to with Craigie would put paid to any political lobbying in return for sexual favours. Worse still, from Coombes’ point of view, Craigie now knew where the produce of the unaccounted-for acreage had gone: into illegal liquor stored in mis-labelled casks. And Ellen Rua O’Malley was the one Coombes would blame for this reversal of fortune.
She took a moment to compose herself before opening the door, preparing for the onslaught. But instead of an irate Jasper Coombes, she was confronted with Sarah and Nora, in tears. Ellen’s first thought was that they had been subjected to an ordeal like her own. These thoughts were quickly dispelled.
‘It’s Kitty!’ they both sobbed, rushing into her room.
‘She’s missing – she didn’t come home at all!’ Sarah said, frantic with worry.
‘Something awful has happened – I just know it!’ Nora joined in.
Ellen closed the door behind them and sat them down on the bed. ‘All right, now, tell me what happened, from the start,’ she said, her arms round them, consoling them.
In fits and starts, each one taking over from the other, they told how Coombes had introduced them to three of his friends from Adelaide. Despite close attention from two of the men, Nora and Sarah had stuck together, and eventually managed to shake off their admirers.
But Kitty had remained deep in conversation with the glossy dark-haired man to whom Ellen had noticed her talking. When everyone else headed for the Great Cellar, she had told Nora that she and Mr Kendall – for that was his name – were going to the maze.
Ellen remembered, right enough, looking for a sight of Kitty in the cellar – and you couldn’t help but notice her, the way her personality bubbled and spilled over – but seeing no sign of her. Nora and Sarah had not been too worried that Kitty had still not returned by the time they retired. They’d passed it off with a joke or two about where it might all lead, ‘such a fine gentleman from Adelaide showing an interest in our Kitty.’ When morning came, however, and Kitty still hadn’t returned they became worried. The news that Mr Kendall had left and gone back to Adelaide late last night had thrown them into a complete panic.
Ellen didn’t share their view of Kendall as a fine gentleman. Like many of the men she had seen about the place yesterday, he had a practised way about him and she didn’t care for it one bit. But that was neither here nor there. She suspected that, just as Craigie had tried to manoeuvre her into a position from which there would be no escape, so Kendall had ensnared Kitty. Then he had simply returned to Adelaide without a qualm, leaving Kitty too ashamed to face the others. She was probably hiding somewhere, not knowing what to do next.
‘Right, let’s start by searching the maze,’ she said, rising. ‘She might have been lost in there all night with all those dead ends.’
So Ellen and Sarah left for the maze, while Nora stayed behind to mind Annie.
By day, the maze looked nowhere near as forbidding as it had the night she had gone in, looking for Lavelle. Yet, as she and Sarah passed through the entrance, Ellen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. There was something eerie about the place. She noticed that Sarah reacted in the same way, huddling close in behind her.
‘Kitty! Kitty! Are you here?’ Ellen called out.
But the only sound was the echo of her own voice. She tried to remember which path she had followed on the previous occasion, but all paths looked the same. She noticed too, that the ground underfoot had been well trampled. Must have been the partygoers, yesterday, she thought.
Each time they drew a dead end, Sarah became more agitated. ‘She’s not here, Ellen – let’s go back! I don’t like it in here – we could get lost,’ she said in a frightened whisper, tugging at Ellen’s arm.
‘No, Sarah, we won’t,’ Ellen said firmly. ‘We may as well see this through now. Think how frightened Kitty must be if she’s been in here alone all night. She could be lying in a faint, not hearing us shouting. We have to make sure she’s not here before we leave.’
Eventually, after they had covered what seemed like the length and breadth of the maze, calling Kitty’s name at every turn, and looking into any nook or cranny big enough to hide her, they saw, to their great relief, the large effigy of the Queen of Hearts ahead of them.
‘We’re there,’ Ellen said. ‘That’s the exit ahead!’
At this, Sarah brightened up. ‘Oh, good. Am I glad to be leaving this fearful place!’
‘First we have to crawl under the skirts of the Queen of Hearts to get out,’ Ellen said.
The two women got down on all fours as the Queen of Hearts laughed at them, mocking their efforts, enjoying their indignity at being on their knees in the muck beneath her. Sarah, not wanting to remain behind, had pulled level with Ellen so they could crawl side by side through the darkness underneath the Queen’s skirts.
‘Is it far?’ she whispered.
‘No, not really,’ Ellen replied. ‘You’ll be all right here beside me. Or do you want to go first, and I’ll be right behind you? We’ll be out in no time!’
‘Yes, that might be better,’ Sarah said, edging in front. ‘Where d’you suppose Kitty can have got to?’ she whispered back to Ellen.
‘Well, she’s not here, or we’d have seen her. She is a terror, staying out like that, and not telling a soul where she’d be,’ Ellen said, a bit annoyed at Kitty, but not too surprised.
‘Do you think she’s all right?’ Sarah turned her head, seeking out Ellen’s reassuring presence in the darkness, while still crawling in the direction of the exit.
‘Yes, I’m sure she—’ Ellen hadn’t finished the sentence when the air was rent by a terrified scream. Sarah appeared to have stumbled on something, and fallen on to her face.
Ellen scrabbled forward as fast as she could, to reach the screaming girl. Then she, too, stumbled – against Sarah, she thought – and fell face-down into something soft and cold and sticky. She pushed herself up off the ground, petrified by the thought that was framing in her mind, her hands and fingers now covered in the stickiness. She wanted to throw up, her whole body convulsing with fear and horror.
‘No! Oh, God,
no! It can’t be! It can’t be! Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph – no!’
Ellen steeled herself to look at what she had stumbled over. Her eyes now accustomed to the darkness, she could distinguish what was stretched out on the ground before them, blocking their exit. In her new dress – the white cloth now patterned with seams of dried blood, trying to hold together the gashes where the knife had entered – lay the mutilated body of a young girl.
Back at the house, rocking a wide-awake Annie on her knee, Nora knew in her heart of hearts that their friend – their young, bouncy, laughter-friend, was dead.
She knew it, even before Sarah lifted her head from the wet, sticky breast where it had rested, and rent the heavens over Crockford’s with the cry: ‘Kitty – Kitty’s murdered!’
In the morning room, Jasper Coombes – like everyone else at Crockford’s – heard Sarah Joyce’s cry of terror as it knifed through the calm of the Barossa morning.
‘What now?’ he said angrily to himself as he dashed out of the house.
First Craigie had stormed off in a temper because the O’Malley woman had got the better of him. Then fifty gallons of his best brandy distil had somehow ended up on the floor of the Great Cellar. Damn! If he’d been there himself he would have put a lantern to the spirit and sent it, Craigie, and the red-haired woman to high heaven!
Now this – Kendall misbehaving himself again, no doubt. He had warned the young politician before about his treatment of the girls. A bit of rough stuff was all right – some of them even liked it. But the screams coming from the maze told him that, this time, Kendall had gone too far. This time, even he wouldn’t be able to cover it up.
When he reached them, Ellen and Sarah were almost beside themselves with terror – their hands and faces smeared with Kitty O’Halloran’s blood.
Coombes looked at Kitty’s body. God, what a mess! It was worse than he’d thought. There would be a big hullabaloo over this one. He would be ostracized, and Crockford’s cut adrift. Think, man, think, he told himself. He was not about to lose everything because one slip of an Irish girl, who would have died anyway had she stayed in her own country, was dead in a maze. His maze.
As others approached, he shouted: ‘Quick, get these women to the safety of the house. It’s the natives – they’ve cut her up pretty badly, the bastards! Hurry! There could be more attacks. There are reports from Bethany of them terrorizing the womenfolk there as well.’
Lavelle appeared and, seeing the blood, ran to Ellen, thinking she and Sarah were wounded.
‘What is it, Ellen? What’s happened – are you all right?’
‘Yes, we’re fine,’ Ellen sobbed. ‘But poor Kitty – she’s in there – dead …’
‘Oh, my God!’ Lavelle said, his face ashen.
‘Lavelle – get the horses, break out the guns – we’re going after those natives! I should have shot that chieftain of theirs when I had the chance.’ At this, Coombes looked scathingly at Ellen, before turning away to issue more orders: ‘You men! Cover the body and take it below – we can’t leave it lying there – those scavengers could come back for it.’
Ellen only half-registered the gist of what he was saying. Even in her state of shock she knew that something was wrong, but everybody was running to Coombes’ orders, fired up by the awful deed, and filled with desire for revenge. She couldn’t think. She wanted to call Lavelle and tell him, make him understand there was something wrong, but she couldn’t focus. Then Lavelle was gone and Mrs Baker was cradling her. Through a fog she heard Coombes say, ‘Get them back to the house, and keep them out of harm’s way. You know what I mean, Mrs Baker.’
It was near evening when Ellen awoke. After sleeping for most of the day she was still drowsy and confused. Still unable to escape the horrible image of Kitty’s body, lying there bloodied, under the gaudy skirts of the Queen of Hearts. Ellen just couldn’t come to grips with it all. She had seen death before – death all around her, wasteful pitiless death. But never before had she confronted violent death inflicted so hideously, and on such a young and radiant body as Kitty’s.
Ellen’s insides began to churn as she remembered. Coombes mustering his men to wreak revenge on the Aborigines.
It didn’t fit. She didn’t believe that Samarara, the proud-looking Aborigine whose life she had saved, could lead his men in an attack on a lone defenceless woman. And how, with so many people attending the tasting, could they have slipped in undetected? Then, having entered the grounds, why didn’t they attack anyone else? Coombes had it all wrong.
Then the thought struck her: Coombes deliberately had it wrong. Kendall – Kendall, he was the missing link – that’s what she couldn’t think of. It had to be Kendall. Coombes was protecting him, covering for him, even if it meant more lives would be lost – Aboriginal lives. Oh, my God, what sort of a monster was she working for?
She must tell Lavelle, get to him, make him stop it! She dressed, and ran to the front of the house. She thought she heard men shouting. But maybe that was all part of the confusion in her head, for when she reached the door there was no one in sight.
She ran towards the maze. It was deserted. Then, towards the side of the house and the back gardens. Nothing, nobody – where was everybody?
She ran to the Great Cellar, heart thumping, exhausted, frightened, driven by the fear that she was too late. She threw open the cellar door, and her knees crumpled at the sight that met her eyes.
There, hanging at the end of a rope slung over the rafters, was the body of Samarara. Cut and bruised, the corpse swung in a slow circle of death, over the self-same spot she had, the night before, been raising her voice in song.
She walked towards Coombes, her eyes fixed on him. He returned her gaze – ice cold, unmoved – and something snapped in her. She lunged at him, her nails reaching for his face, screaming: ‘No! No – you bastard! You murdered him!’
‘Grab her!’ Coombes barked out, and two men stepped from the shadows and caught her. ‘You saved this black heathen once before – and look what he did to your friend in return. But you can’t save him now, nor the ones we already accounted for – you Irish boong-lover,’ Coombes spat out at her.
‘You’re wrong, Coombes,’ she shouted at him. ‘This man didn’t kill Kitty. And you know who did,’ she screamed. ‘It was your friend, Kendall!’
Then, as she struggled with the two men who held her, she saw Lavelle for the first time. He was stripped to the waist, stretched and tied over one of the casks, a gag in his mouth.
‘You’ve just arrived in time, Mrs O’Malley!’ Coombes said sarcastically, ignoring her accusation. ‘Your fellow musician, Lavelle, refused my order to hang this Abo found guilty of murder. He got a fair trial – didn’t he, men?’
Coombes’ henchmen chorused their approval.
‘But our Mr Lavelle thought differently. So now we’re going to teach him a little lesson in Australian justice.’
And, with that, Coombes grabbed a large flailed whip – the ends of which were tipped with some kind of metal pieces. Ellen tried to break free, but she was no match for the arms that restrained her.
‘Bring her forward, men, so she can see how Crockford’s treats traitors!’ Coombes ordered.
They dragged Ellen to within a few feet of Lavelle. One of them, despite her best efforts, forced her head round so that she would have to look into Lavelle’s eyes as he suffered.
Coombes stood back. He raised his right arm above his head and smiled, looking at Ellen, before bringing the lash down hard on Lavelle’s bare back.
Ellen flinched at the sound as the metal-tipped whip bit into flesh. Lavelle did not flinch, though Ellen could see his eyes racked with pain as he fixed on her face. He remained unflinching as again and again, unceasingly, Coombes wielded the lash.
Ellen fought, and kicked, and bit, to try and get away from her captors, desperate to get at the one who took pleasure in inflicting such cruel punishment, but it was no use. She tried to avert her eyes – as if, in forcing h
er to watch, Coombes had made her a part of his evil. But then it struck her that Lavelle might gain some strength from her. She deliberately stopped fighting and fixed her eyes on him, willing him that strength and solace, until his whole body shuddered once, and he slipped into the blessed release of unconsciousness.
Only then did Jasper Coombes stop flogging the broken body strapped to the cask marked Verdelho.
He turned to Ellen, and in tones devoid of all emotion said: ‘You can have your fiddle-player, Ellen Rua O’Malley – for all the jigs and reels he’ll play you now!’
35
After Coombes, cold-sweated from his exertions, left the Great Cellar, they let her go. Most of the men slunk off too. A few hung around, looking sheepish and unsure of themselves, as if waiting to see what would happen next.
‘Untie him from the cask!’ Ellen shouted at two of them, and they leapt to, stung by the ferocity in her voice. ‘And you! Take down that man from the rafters,’ she ordered another two.
‘Mr Coombes said we was to leave him hang until morning time, ma’am!’ one of them said.
‘Take him down, now – or I’ll take this whip to you. Do you hear me?’ she threatened, reaching for Coombes’ whip.
This had the desired effect, and the two men moved to carry out her orders. Lavelle, cut free of the ropes that bound him, lay draped over the wine cask, motionless.
Ellen was fearful of moving him, lest he be damaged further. So she sent one of the men to fetch Mrs Baker and her medicine chest, while she remained with him.
Ma-Ma Baker soon arrived, her big frame panting with the effort of her haste. When she entered the Great Cellar, she stopped short at the doorway, shocked at what she saw. One lifeless corpse of an Aborigine and one flayed body of a white man slumped over a cask.
‘Oh, my God! Oh, my good God!’ she exclaimed, looking at Ellen. ‘Are they both … dead?’ she managed to get out.
The Whitest Flower Page 33