‘Like the most effective works of Satan, their argument seems reasonable – reasonable enough to lead many a sensible man down a dangerous path.
‘But these clever men, the ones who preach evil disguised as good, know the truth of it. They know the ridiculous, obscene and un-Christian concept of universal suffrage will lead to chaos. They know there are those whom the Lord has equipped to govern, and placing that burden on others will lead to ruin.’
Monsarrat discovered the identity of Bulmer’s victim after the service. He came upon Dr Homer Preston outside the church, clapping the shoulder of another man. ‘I hope you don’t feel too neglected, Monsarrat,’ Preston called when he saw him. ‘I’m sure the reverend will return to you next week.’
His companion was replacing his black cloth cap, having removed it in church – probably more out of respect for God and convention than Reverend Bulmer. Small, wiry and constantly in motion, waiting for Monsarrat to join them he shifted from foot to foot.
‘Now, even someone as recently returned as you cannot have failed to hear of the Flying Pieman. You know this fellow runs into the mountains and back in a single week, with that ridiculous hot box of his,’ Preston said, indicating his companion.
Monsarrat shook the man’s hand. ‘Yes, I believe we met outside the Female Factory. I’m not clear, though, whether it was pies or ideology you were selling.’
‘More of the former than the latter I’m afraid, though I wish the quantities were reversed,’ the man said in a clipped accent. ‘And while there are some excitable souls who refer to me as the Flying Pieman, I much prefer the name that God and my parents gave me, which happens to be Stephen Lethbridge. At your service, naturally.’
‘Well, Mr Lethbridge, I am in your debt for drawing the hellfire of the reverend away from me. It won’t last, I fear, but a Sunday’s respite has been delightful.’
‘I am sure. When that man warms to a topic, he rarely lets go. Quite a feat to become the focus of such attention, especially for one so newly arrived.’
‘Newly returned would be more accurate. I have enjoyed his attention before, when last I lived in Parramatta. A convict with an education, you see. He could not resist.’
It was Bulmer who’d had a geographic restriction placed on Monsarrat’s first ticket of leave, preventing him from seeing Sophia in her Parramatta bedroom. It was a restriction he had ignored, at her urging, and Bulmer had taken great delight in reporting Monsarrat to the magistrates when he was caught on the road from Sophia’s bed. Sophia must then be more than she currently seemed, he thought. It would be an unbearable cruelty if he sacrificed his freedom for one whom he did not have a hope of loving.
‘I may be able to provide you with more relief next Sunday,’ Lethbridge said. ‘I will be staying in Parramatta for two weeks, and I have no doubt that in that time I’ll manage to do something to offend the man’s sensibilities. I’ll consider myself a failure if I don’t, actually. Especially as there are so many who are eager to escape condemnation from the pulpit by placing someone else in front of the man.’
‘I see. And who do you believe placed you in front of him?’
‘Well – when I triangulate my location on Saturday, and recall the man within the Female Factory that morning, I come to a particular conclusion.’
Monsarrat looked confused.
‘I understand it has been some time since you have lived here, Mr Monsarrat. So you may not have had the pleasure of hearing the reverend on the subject of immorality at the Female Factory – he’s on the management committee too, so I’m not entirely sure he should be drawing attention to his own failures, but still. Half the windows on the second floor are broken, which forces the women to huddle in one corner of their rooms, which, to hear the reverend tell it, urges them to acts of depravity that defy description. And of course there is Church’s well-known liking for female convicts, and his wife’s well-known liking for rum. All of which, to Bulmer, could have been prevented by the oversight of more effective management.’
‘Well, it seems Socrates McAllister is managing the place at present. I thought Bulmer and he were on friendly terms. They are on the bench together, are they not?’
‘They’re friendly for as long as it benefits both of them. But what if the new governor decides to look at the Factory records and finds certain irregularities during the late superintendent’s tenure? What if he decides to call the management committee to account? Well, then the reverend can point to his continued warnings from the pulpit, say his push for reformation in the committee room was ignored.’
‘Why does he not simply leave the committee?’ said Monsarrat. ‘Why risk soiling his cassock with the muck of the women?’
‘He’s an evangelist,’ said Lethbridge. ‘He feels divinely directed to bring the word of his vengeful God to the wretches. Do not make the mistake of thinking Horace Bulmer is motivated entirely by the pursuit of earthly power. He is a zealot, and that makes him dangerous.’
‘Well, whatever drives the man, hopefully he and McAllister will make a better selection this time around. The committee does not seem to be mourning Church.’
‘Possibly not. And nor are the innkeepers who have been receiving watered rum of late, so they tell me: I stop at a lot of places between here and Blackheath, and people seem to trust me – I’m familiar, but not around all the time to cause embarrassment.’
‘I see. And are any of your confidants significantly more aggrieved than the rest?’
‘Not as far as I can tell. But some are closer than others. Michael Crotty, now – he owns a shebeen nearby, and he’s losing customers over the rum. He’s not philosophical about it in the least.’
Sophia, having finished a discussion with the wife of a less prosperous farmer in the district, was employing one of her more disconcerting strategies, standing at some distance and staring, silent but eloquent on the fact that she felt it was time to leave.
‘Mr Lethbridge, I should be glad of the opportunity to sample one of your pies before you leave. Are you selling them this coming week?’
‘Indeed. On Thursday I plan to be at the crossroads. A wonderful place for the curious, Monsarrat – all kinds of people and information wash up there. And people do seem to enjoy discussing scandals there while they eat. The superintendent’s departure from the world is being feverishly dissected at the moment. Whatever crimes the man committed in life, there’s no denying that in death he’s been awfully good for business.’
‘I hope to see you on Thursday, then.’
‘And I you, Mr Monsarrat. In the meantime, mind yourself. The ruts in the road are the least of the dangers for those who don’t watch their footing here.’
Chapter 9
Monsarrat seemed to be getting into the habit of defending Grace O’Leary.
‘I honestly don’t believe it was her. Quite apart from the fact that her door is guarded – inexpertly, it has to be said – I simply don’t believe she has it in her.’
‘Making quite a number of assumptions there, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘For a logical man, you are being quite illogical. How on earth would you know what she has or hasn’t in her?’
Monsarrat sighed. It was fast becoming his favourite time of the week, Sunday evening supper at the kitchen table, enabling Mrs Mulrooney and him to drop any external pretence of a master–servant relationship and converse as the friends they were. But sometimes he wished she was just a little less intelligent, a little less perceptive. Might make things more restful, but it would also make them less interesting.
‘I don’t know, I really don’t,’ he said. ‘It’s instinct – and before you say it, yes, I know that mine has been proved wrong in the past – but she seems to believe she has a role, still, in protecting the others. And how can she do that from the end of a rope?’
For all Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney had been through together in the past two years, they still addressed each other formally, for the most part. In Port Macquarie their conv
ersations took place in the Government House kitchen, with intrusion likely at any time. It was true that overfamiliarity would not have any damaging constructions placed on it – given the age difference, very few people would be believed should they start to spread rumours of a non-existent romantic liaison. Nevertheless, any deviation from accepted practice would likely have brought them unwanted attention.
Here, though, at a table which belonged to Monsarrat rather than the government – and which received regular scrubbings from Mrs Mulrooney in penance for its very existence – there was no one to clatter through the door, heedless of anything they might be interrupting, and lock themselves down in one of the chairs demanding tea. The young man who had once done that was gone now, and not mentioned between them for all that an empty chair was still always kept at the table.
Given the change, Monsarrat had invited his housekeeper to address him by his given name.
‘I don’t choose to be employed by a Hugh,’ she had said. ‘A Hugh might be anyone and might do anything, you know. Whereas, Mr Monsarrat … I trust a name like that.’
‘I suppose I had better continue to address you as Mrs Mulrooney, then,’ he said.
‘You will do as you please, of course,’ she had answered, with a stern look which left him in no doubt that any liberties would be taken at his peril.
‘Well, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Mrs Mulrooney now. ‘I prefer not to believe it of her either – you say she is an Irishwoman, so I may be a little swayed in that regard, but nevertheless … I learned a good deal of the character of that Church.’
‘And how did you manage that, while assisting the woman from the Ladies’ Committee?’
‘The woman’s name is Mrs Nelson, I’ll thank you to remember,’ Mrs Mulrooney said sharply. ‘A good woman, too. Practical, unlike some of my acquaintances. And I didn’t do much to assist. She bade me sit with Mrs Church while she went on an errand.’
‘Yes, so you said. Unconscious, I understand. Yet she still managed to tell you something of her husband?’
‘Indeed, and the only reason I haven’t raised it until now is because you’ve been rather taken up with a certain individual today.’
Monsarrat smiled weakly. The tension between his friend and his lover was beginning to pierce even his male consciousness. He could not guess what the cause of it was, but was sure they would come to some form of accommodation with each other. He did find it mildly amusing that these two women seemed to be competing for different parts of him – Sophia for his heart, Mrs Mulrooney for his head. That amusement was clouded by the fact that any serious breach between them would make life very difficult. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but was aware of a certain core of stubbornness in which the two of them were more alike than different.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what did the unconscious woman manage to tell you?’
‘Well, very nearly nothing. I had to work my way up to it, you see, to get close – stank so much, she did. Sweat and rum – it’s a combination I particularly dislike, and one which rarely manifests itself in a woman. But this one … You could almost see the haze around her.’
‘But get close you did, eventually? The noxious substances which you had to clean up when dear Mrs Shelborne was ill … The sweat and fumes from a drunk woman must be nothing in comparison.’
Mrs Mulrooney sat down opposite him, now, bracing her elbows on the table and resting her forehead on the palm of one hand. ‘Don’t speak of her. Not yet. The affection I had for that woman – I would have cleaned a thousand times worse. I would have waded through a river of it.’
‘Of course, my friend. I am sorry.’
Mrs Mulrooney lifted her head, stood and placed her hands on the table, leaning on them for a moment to regain strength. Then she pulled her shoulders back and set about sharpening a knife, which had already undergone similar treatment the day before.
‘I felt no affection for Mrs Church, of course,’ she said as she moved the blade across the whetstone. ‘I know women might be driven to all sorts of actions to maintain their survival in a place such as this, but I find it hard to understand anyone putting up with a husband like that, if he is guilty of even half the crimes that are laid at his door.’
‘Yes … Well, not everyone is as strong as you. I’m certainly not.’
She turned from her work then, quickly pivoting at the hip and flicking out her cleaning towel, catching him as always with remarkable precision on the temple.
‘Of course you’re not, Mr Monsarrat. That’s why you need me – it’s why you pay me the pittance that you do to keep me around.’
Monsarrat, who was paying Mrs Mulrooney more than he could afford, smiled and nodded. ‘Indeed, I am fortunate that you consent to such mean treatment rather than taking yourself elsewhere.’
She had returned to her sharpening, but spared one eye to glare sideways at him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you were telling me what you learned from Mrs Church.’
‘Yes, I was, before you interrupted me with your prattle. I eventually accustomed myself to the smell of her. And I noticed that a mass of her tangled hair was stuck to her cheek. I suppose she’d been sleeping on it and had rolled over because when I smoothed it back from the face – using a cloth, mind you, I wouldn’t touch it with my bare hands – I noticed small marks in her skin. And then I noticed scars on her cheeks. A misshapen nose, which looked as though it had been broken. And her hands – the knuckles were raw, the nails were broken, and all up her arms there were scars, short straight ones, as though somebody had been cutting her with a knife. Regularly.’
‘And you believe each of these injuries was inflicted by her husband.’
‘Now, I don’t go making assumptions with the regularity that you do. But that’s a fairly safe one, I would say.’
‘So would I. Especially given what I learned of him from Grace O’Leary.’
‘But there’s something else, Mr Monsarrat. Something which makes me believe she may not have acquiesced, at least in the end.’
‘And that is?’
‘Underneath the couch she was lying on – I noticed it as I knelt down to examine her hands – there were scratches, deep gouges in the wood.’
‘And why would that be significant?’
‘Because the instrument which I believe made those scratches was lying there as well. Long, and pointed like the weapon the doctor believes dispatched Church. It was an awl.’
* * *
Hannah hoped she wouldn’t start the week in the position of nursemaid to an unconscious drunk. Now Monsarrat had convinced Eveleigh to let him go to the Factory again, she was accompanying him to be of what assistance she could to Mrs Nelson. They took a track downhill and then a wider trail, which had been churned by wagons after rain and had set into hard corrugations and ridges of clay.
‘It’s quite a fortunate turn of events, actually, that you’ve been asked to help her,’ Monsarrat said. ‘Your keen eye may yet light upon something which has further bearing on the investigation. Certainly I can’t think of anyone else who would have noticed the awl under the bed.’
Hannah was delighted by the praise, while also accepting it as simple truth. And when she sought out Rebecca Nelson in the superintendent’s quarters, she was further delighted by her reception.
‘How marvellous! To have you here on a Monday is an unexpected blessing. Today, you see, is when I tend to visit those unfortunates who are somewhat unsound of mind.’
Mrs Nelson grabbed Hannah’s arm, dragging her by the arm across the outer yard and into the Factory. Weaving in and out through dining halls and workshops, past looms attended by women dressed in odd patchworks of clothes. A few looked up and smiled at Rebecca as she went past. One even said good morning.
‘Good morning, Ann! Looking forward to tomorrow?’ Mrs Nelson didn’t wait for an answer, especially as the question implied Ann had some choice in tomorrow’s activities, whatever they were.
‘I’m teaching Ann to read, yo
u see. A few of the other First Class women too. I’d love to expand into the whole Factory, but I’m not allowed to, and in any case there’s only one of me. Well, two of me now,’ she said, smiling at Hannah.
‘Ah. A difficult process, with which I have first-hand experience.’
‘You have taught someone to read?’
‘Not a bit of it. I have been taught – am being taught. Only for the past six weeks.’
‘And how do you fare?’ Mrs Nelson stopped her headlong progress through the halls, drawing Hannah aside, looking at her intently.
‘Tolerably, so I’m led to believe. I am now writing letters to my son. I can’t speak for the grammar or the spelling, but I’m told I’m doing well.’
‘I don’t doubt it. I knew you were intelligent the moment I met you. It’s in the eyes, you see. Now, tell me – I’ve had no one to ask this question of, no one who has the wits to answer it, anyway. What is the most difficult part of it?’
‘Surely you remember learning to read yourself?’
‘No. My father was a schoolteacher, my mother a governess: I was schooled in my letters very young. I certainly remember hating it though. Some of it must’ve sunk in, however, for I can read as well as anyone, and there are those who say my hand is among the finest in the colony.’
‘I know someone who’d like to challenge you for that honour. As to the hardest … I would have to say that the letters won’t behave themselves. They keep insisting on doing different things in different words. There is no logic to it, no organisation. If I ran a kitchen the way the English language runs itself, it would be in ruins.’
Rebecca chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’re right, my dear Mrs Mulrooney. So if you were to teach someone else to read, how would you go about it?’
‘Get the exceptions out of the way before teaching the rules. Otherwise you have people driving themselves demented to learn the logic of it, only for them to find there is no logic. I’m not surprised many throw their hands up and walk away from it. Especially when they don’t need it to make money – they can get that selling dresses, or sailcloth, or … other things.’
The Unmourned Page 8