Wimmera Gold

by Peter Corris

  'You're quick on the uptake, young man. I like that. And you have nice manners. But I'm talking about a business proposition. What price were you thinking of asking?'

  'I don't rightly know.'

  Miss Darcy examined the pieces again. 'Are they all exactly the same?'

  'No. You can't hardly do that. There's small differences between 'em, but they're all of the same quality, if you take my meaning.'

  'I do indeed. I'd suggest two guineas. It's a dignified figure, don't you think?'

  Millicent Darcy was small and dark with grey hair strained back into a tight bun. She was in her sixties and seemed to be most animated when talking about money. Lincoln was amused by her. 'Whatever you say, ma'am.'

  'Excellent. That would result in eighty guineas when all the carvings are sold. I propose a commission of ten per cent for myself. You would then get … seventy-five pounds and twelve shillings, net. Would that be satisfactory?'

  'That would be fine and dandy. I'll just get me a room in the hotel across the street and I can deliver the merchandise to you right away.' Millicent Darcy set up a table in her tea rooms and exhibited the carvings on a blue velvet cloth. Lincoln approved of the display. All were sold over a period of five days. When Henry Fanshawe, having heard of the pieces, came in to buy she had to inform him that there were none available.

  'Perhaps the artist can make some more?' Fanshawe suggested.

  'Oh, he's not an artist, Mr Fanshawe. He's, well, a horseman, I suppose. An American. I think he said he has worked mostly with cattle. Yes, cattle.'

  'I need a man who knows about cattle. I'm thinking of building up a herd myself.'

  Miss Darcy leaned forward. 'If you were to offer Mr Lincoln a position at Fanlock, perhaps he could be persuaded to do some more carvings. Look.'

  Lincoln had left several sketches, signed with his name, as evidence of his authorship of the pieces. Fanshawe hooked on a pair of spectacles and held the sheet of notepaper Miss Darcy had produced to the light.

  'That's remarkable,' he said. 'Very … lifelike. I'm sure my wife would love to have them. Perhaps some other buyer might … '

  Millicent Darcy shook her head. 'There are ten sets of four. Almost everyone bought a complete set. Mr Cossom, who is very knowledgable about wood-carving, bought three sets. I doubt that anyone would part with them. I bought a set myself, and I can assure you that fifty pounds would not suffice.'

  Fanshawe knew Millicent Darcy of old, and had no intention of rising to this bait. The alternative proposition, of employing the American and getting him to do more carving, had greater appeal. 'Where can I find him, Miss Darcy? What's his name again?'

  Henry Fanshawe and Wesley Lincoln met in the saloon bar of the Commercial Hotel the day after the squatter had talked to Millicent Darcy. The American had been riding in the country around the town and was sweaty and dust-stained. The money he had earned had made him confident and assertive, and he had been offhand when Fanshawe introduced himself.

  'So what do you think of the Wimmera, Mr Lincoln?'

  'It's fine country, this time of year at least.'

  'That's true. You've put your finger on it there. Can I buy you a drink?'

  The result of the meeting was that Lincoln was hired to advise and assist the squatter in the management of his small herd of cattle. Fanshawe was troubled by Lincoln's black glove and by the casualness of his manner. He did not mention the carvings and wondered whether Lincoln, whose left hand appeared stiff and awkward, had actually done the work, but he was impressed by his knowledge of cattle. Lincoln, in discussing Texas steers and Argentinian shorthorns, quickly outran Fanshawe's scanty knowledge. As ever, Wesley Lincoln disliked living in a town and he was anxious to get back into the bush. He accepted the wages offered and shook the squatter's hand.

  Three months later Lincoln rode into town for a drink and to spend some time in Pauline Drewe's agreeable establishment. He was becoming restless at Fanlock. He was conscious of his age and a sense of time passing more quickly. He had nothing to show for his twenty-plus years on earth bar a mangled hand, $100 or so and a good horse. Perhaps as a result of wanting to make love to the wife he had come to dislike the husband. He was ready to move on but acutely conscious that if he did he would be moving into a void.

  Millicent Darcy had waved to him in the street and he had ignored her. He wasn't in the mood for carving kangaroos, felt more like shooting them. And that's how you could end up, he thought, a kangaroo or dingo shooter. Like them good-for-nothing buffalo hunters back home. The thought depressed him and he was suddenly overwhelmed by memories, mainly of smells—the desert cactus, the sweet tang of burning mesquite wood, the aroma of strong coffee, pot-brewed on a camp fire. He realised that he was homesick.

  At the hotel he drank a glass of beer quickly and ordered another as he packed his pipe. He calculated that he had the price of a steamer ticket to the States, could probably even take the horse. But then what? It was at that moment that he was approached by Daniel Bracken. After Lincoln and Bracken had adjourned to Mrs Drewe's, the American enjoying her favours and Bracken struggling to perform with a capable employee named Angela, they sat in a parlour where the Irishman drank most of the bottle and told Lincoln about the oddly secretive behaviour of Henry Fanshawe.

  'That man has something of immense value which he is trying to hide.'

  'What would that be?'

  'That is what I would like you to find out.'

  'Why?'

  'Because it is my judgment that whatever it is does not belong to him. And there's nothing easier in this world than to steal something from someone who has no right to it in the first place.'

  Lincoln sipped brandy and thought this over. In a way it sounded like what Powell, the hotel manager, had done to him—got away scot clean by muddying the waters. 'I think I know what you mean.'

  Bracken's voice was starting to slur. 'I've been in the law for a good many years now and I can tell you this—the biggest crimes go undetected.'

  'Is that right?'

  'Absolutely. What are your relations with your employer?'

  Lincoln shrugged. 'All right, I guess.'

  'I sense some hostility.'

  Lincoln had drunk more than he'd been accustomed to in recent times and his tongue was loosened. 'He's got a beautiful wife that he doesn't treat right.'

  Bracken's hand fell on the American's shoulder. 'Cultivate her, Lincoln. Gain her confidence.'

  It was after this meeting that Wesley Lincoln took his first ride with Margaret Fanshawe.

  PART IV

  John Perry and

  Daniel Bracken

  26

  'Who is your legal representative in Melbourne?' John Perry had asked Henry Fanshawe.

  'Gladehill and Browne,' the squatter replied. 'A very respectable Collins Street firm. Why do you ask, Perry?'

  The two men were standing in the entrance hall to Fanshawe's imposing house. Perry was travel-stained and weary, prepared to be resentful at being treated like a menial. Fanshawe, not normally sensitive to the feelings of people he considered his social inferiors, could feel the restraint being exercised by the other man. He extended his arm. 'Come into the sitting room here. My wife has retired and I was ready for bed myself, but I think I can revive the fire. Come on, man. I'll give you a brandy.'

  Perry allowed his rising anger to subside. 'I'd be glad of it. A raw night out and I've had a long ride.'

  'I can see that. Put your … what is that garment called?'

  'It's a poncho. I believe the idea comes from Argentina.'

  Fanshawe sniffed. 'Huh, I think Lincoln spent some time in Argentina. Put it over the stairs and come and have a drink. I'll have one myself. I'm a bit shaken by all this.'

  They went into the sitting room and Fanshawe stirred the fire into life. He took a decanter from a sideboard and poured two stiff brandies before gesturing to Perry to sit.

  'Thank you.' Perry accepted the glass and took a chair near the fire. Th
e spirit warmed him immediately, although the heat in his stomach reminded him he had not eaten for twelve hours.

  'Now,' Fanshawe said. 'Please make yourself clear.'

  Perry chose his words carefully. 'I believe your … secret became known to someone involved in your legal affairs and was made use of by this person, in association with Lincoln.'

  'Impossible. Why, my uncle dealt with Gladehill and Browne for many years and I've never known them to be anything but utterly discreet.'

  'Does the name Bracken mean anything to you?'

  The squatter drank some brandy before shaking his head.

  'I take it you don't know everyone in the solicitor's office. There could be a clerk, a junior member, something of the kind?'

  'I suppose so. Good god, I never imagined anything like this. What the devil should I do?'

  Perry finished his brandy and stood. 'I'll go to Melbourne and make further enquiries.'

  'You can't just march up to a firm like that and ask them questions. And look, I don't want my business bandied about among clerks and such people.'

  Perry smiled. 'Mr Fanshawe, you have been robbed by an American adventurer, and you are employing a mulatto prize-fighter. Your circumstances demand unusual measures. You may rely on my discretion.'

  Fanshawe stared at the tall, straight figure of Perry who placed his glass on the sideboard as if he were used to drinking in gentlemen's houses every day. 'Yes,' he said, 'I believe I can.'

  Perry walked to the door and paused with his hand on the knob. He was deliberating whether to say anything to Fanshawe about the Aborigines and the possibility of them having a claim to the gold. He decided against it. 'Goodnight, Mr Fanshawe.'

  The squatter was pouring more brandy. He lifted his hand and spilled some of the liquor on the carpet. Perry opened the door and went out.

  'Mr Perry.'

  Margaret Fanshawe, wearing a dark dressing gown over her night attire, stood at the foot of the stairs. She looked very unwell, with a bright flush on her cheeks, in an otherwise pinched and wan face. She clung to the bannister and seemed about to fall. Instinctively, Perry moved towards her but she took two firm steps towards a small vestibule beside the stairwell.

  'Please,' she said. 'I must speak to you.'

  Perry glanced at the sitting-room door. Fanshawe was no doubt working on the large brandy he had poured and Margaret Fanshawe's voice was barely above a whisper.

  'Quickly,' she said.

  Perry snatched up his poncho and joined her in the space which was little more than an alcove. 'What is it, Mrs Fanshawe? You look ill.'

  Her throaty laugh was almost hysterical. 'Not ill. I am with child. My husband talks in his sleep, Mr Perry. He dreams aloud. I know he has some dreadful imaginings about Wesley Lincoln. I also know that you have been asking people questions about him.'

  'Mrs Fanshawe, I'm afraid I cannot discuss … '

  'There's no need to discuss anything. I can tell from your face that it's true. Will you tell him that I forgive him?'

  'Madam?'

  'Tell Wesley Lincoln that I forgive him. That is all I have to say to you.'

  She moved away and Perry only barely managed to keep from restraining her. 'Do you know where he is?'

  She turned back to look at him. Her smile was dreamy and her eyes were pinpoints. Perry judged that she had taken a drug which was now beginning to affect her. 'He will be in Texas, or New Orleans or Arizona. In some place with a beautiful name and not in this terrible, barren dried-up land where nothing good ever, ever lasts for long.'

  She went unsteadily up the stairs, sliding her hand along the rail. Perry watched until she had safely negotiated the turn before he went quickly to the door and out into the blustering wind and swirling rain.

  Early in the morning, Perry saddled Jamaica and said goodbye to Michael Findlay. Fanshawe had rescinded his expulsion order after getting Find-lay's promise to stay sober. Perry entrusted the old emancipist with gifts he had bought for the Fanshawe children before the race meeting—a doll and two pairs of the new-fangled boxing gloves. The quickest way to Melbourne was by coach from Portland, but Perry thought it unlikely that a man of colour would be permitted to ride in the coach, especially if there were female passengers. Accordingly, he set out on the long ride to the nearest railhead at Castlemaine.

  He reached the former goldmining town in three days after spending two comfortable nights camped in the bush. As he reclined by his campfire he allowed himself the indulgence of thinking how pleasant it would be to have Sarah Braun with him. She could tell him some of her people's stories about the country and he could tell her about the wider world. The fantasy was oddly comforting. In Castlemaine he renewed several acquaintances. He had passed through the town some months before, giving a shooting exhibition and winning a hard-fought battle against the local bareknuckle champion. One of the men who had won money on him was Barney Tolley, the railway stationmaster. Perry had no difficulty getting a seat on the Melbourne train and a stall in the boxcar for his horse.

  The train arrived in Melbourne late in the afternoon and Perry rode Jamaica to a stableyard near the Victoria Market. It was a sporting area, where men of the turf and the prize ring and professional racing pedestrians gathered and Perry had a reputation as a stylish performer. He took a room in the Flagstaff Hotel, where no colour line was drawn except against the Australian natives, and ate a good meal. After the dinner he walked around the city. The night was cold with what he thought of as a characteristic Melbourne wind—it seemed to blow into a man's face no matter what corner he turned. At times like these he yearned for the warm climate of Barbados and felt that every one of these cold nights took days off his life.

  He sat with a whiskey and hot water by the fire in his room, reviewing his notes and considering his options. Henry Fanshawe was right: he could not simply walk into the legal offices and accost Bracken, even supposing that his guess was correct and Bracken did indeed work for the firm. In the first place, it was unlikely that he would be permitted past the first door. Secondly, if he located Bracken, he could not force him to acknowledge his guilt or surrender the gold. He had not a legal leg to stand on, something of which Bracken would be perfectly aware. A subtle approach was required.

  In the morning Perry caught a tram to the commercial and legal end of Collins Street. As he had guessed, the offices of Gladehill & Browne were located inside a substantial building given over to legal and medical rooms. He had only the roughest description of his man from Pauline Drewe—heavy set, bearded, pale-skinned. Many of the men in the street and entering and leaving the building could have answered to it. As he strolled by for the second time he realised that he was attracting attention with his considerable height and exotic looks. As he hurried away from Collins Street, he almost bumped into a well-dressed man who was extracting a card from a case and handing it to another man before boarding a cab. The well-dressed individual was of Asian appearance and his card had a glint of gold leaf.

  Perry went first to Little Bourke Street where he was measured and ordered several shirts, two suits and a topcoat from a Chinese tailor. He chose the best materials available, paid a substantial deposit and agreed to pay a bonus if the clothes were ready in two days. He next called at a printery in North Melbourne and placed an order for a set of cards, embossed with gold leaf, in the name of Prince Asias Asawar—legate of the court of the Emperor of Abyssinia.

  The printer marked a sheet of paper with a heavy crayon. 'Where do I deliver them, Prince?'

  'I'll pick them up,' Perry said, handing over more cash. 'And mum's the word.'

  He bought a hat, a cane, gloves, hose and underwear and two pairs of English shoes as well as an imposing set of tooled leather luggage which caused comment when he arrived at the Flagstaff Hotel.

  'Blimey, John, goin' to stay with the Governor, are you?'

  'Goin' on your honeymoon, John? Who's the lucky lady?'

  'Will that be two bottles of champagne for tea, my lord,
or just the one?'

  Perry smiled loftily and generously tipped the porter who lugged the purchases up to his room. He spent the two following days riding Jamaica at South Melbourne beach and training at Mahoney's boxing academy in Flinders Lane. He skipped and ran and did exercises with the Indian clubs. In his sparring sessions he was careful not to get his face marked. This caution drew comment from some of the Fancy, and gave rise to the opinion that 'Black' Perry might have lost his edge. There were mutterings about a match with Jim Charles, an American negro sailor who had jumped ship and won three fights in quick succession. When approached, Perry was non-committal, which caused the Fancy to entertain the view that he had lost his 'bottom' and would be easy meat for the next man to get him in the ring.

  On his last night at the Flagstaff, he cut his own hair in front of a mirror and applied pomade to straighten and smooth it down. Satisfied with this result, he set to work on his almost one week's growth of beard, contriving a neat goatee and thin moustache. His skin, which darkened noticeably in the summer, was light after weeks of the gloomy Victorian weather. Regarding his image in the mirror, he placed the hat on his head and touched the knob of the ebony cane to its curled brim.

  'You look like a Bridgetown pimp,' he said.

  He collected his cards from the printer and purchased a chamois carrying case for them. He collected his clothes from the tailor and changed into them at the back of the shop. The fit was excellent. Perry left the tailor's wearing a dark suit with white shirt and pearl grey waistcoat matching the colour of his hat. His tie was a deep bronze with a ruby stickpin. His highly polished shoes rang on the pavement in accompaniment to the tap of his cane. His ordinary clothes, saddlebag and camping equipment were stowed inside his new luggage. The only item he retained from his previous assemblage was the leather gun case. Thus equipped, he took a cab to the Lancaster Hotel.

  'Sir?' The young man behind the reception desk was nonplussed as Perry swept up the stairs followed by a porter carrying his elaborate baggage.