by Darry Fraser
‘I thought Conor—’
She threw her hands up. ‘He knows I have been riding all my life. I will find myself a horse. I’m certainly not interested in pressing flowers. Perhaps I will find an interesting subject to study, particularly pertinent to Conor’s business.’
Kate suggested a string of avenues to follow up, mostly volunteer work in charities. Each was met with a fervent shake of the head.
‘I wonder if Conor would mind if you worked for Angus for a while?’ she said finally. ‘Would that help things a little? Though, now I think of it, I’m not sure what Angus would make of it.’
Angus Forrestor was a solicitor. Georgie could just imagine filing in some stuffy little office in the city for her brother-in-law. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think either of them expect me to be other than wife and hostess.’
‘That’s your role now, wife and soon perhaps, a mother,’ Kate said. ‘But he can’t expect to leave you all on your own for weeks on end without something you love to do. We shall tackle the issue tomorrow at Angeline’s. I’m sure she’ll have a few ideas.’ Kate patted her sister-in-law’s hand.
Georgie just shook her head and stared at her hands.
Twenty-Three
Conor Foley moored the Lady Mitchell in a channel away from the dock at Echuca after she’d unloaded. It cleared the way for other boats at the cranes. He’d sailed her from Echuca to Renmark and back again, helping to shift the extra load of the Ross merchandise, a contract he’d recently won back despite previous difficulties with breakdowns. She’d wait there until ready for reloading.
On his way through, he’d left a number of men to work at Jacaranda while he was away: Barnes, his foreman, was stocky, weathered, tough; Reilly, the drunk, still bothered Foley by his very presence; the McCormack boys were lanky and hardworking roustabouts; Smith, Dawson and young Billy, the shearers, were all wiry and lean. Barnes would oversee old man MacHenry, who was still on Jacaranda with his wife and daughter. Barnes was under orders to report by mail on a regular basis.
In Echuca now for nearly a week, Foley finalised some business matters. He’d taken a night or two over a personal matter in a discreet townhouse then lodged at the Pastoral. He was most at peace with the world. He didn’t stop in at Jacaranda on the way back to Echuca. He hadn’t wanted to undermine Barnes’s confidence, but would return there in two months after time at home in Melbourne.
Now, he waited for Ranald Finn to finish unloading the Lady Goodnight then he would catch up with his captain in the pub. He was in the middle of organising a ticket at the railway office for passage to Melbourne when one of the postal clerks found him there.
‘Saw you crossing the street, Mr Foley. Thought you’d like to know there’s some mail for you and also a telegram.’
Foley thanked the man and finalised his rail booking. He’d be home by Thursday lunchtime. Striding across the busy main street to the post office, he wondered who would have sent a telegram.
The letters were Barnes’s reports, dated weeks ago, painful to read, for, as the man had said, his writing was poor. Barnes informed Foley that all was well, that there’d been little trouble with Reilly, although he still drank more than was acceptable, and no bother out of Mr MacHenry, though Barnes described him as ‘merows’. Morose was right. Foley wasn’t surprised by that description at all. Jemimah was cooking for the men and by all accounts it was edible and adequate. Elspeth was making a nuisance of herself, trying to treat the working men as servants. Foley grunted. Spoiled brat.
The telegram, however, was dire news. Dated just days ago, it read: Mr Foley sir, there’s trouble here. A life is lost. Mr Finn has word. Please advise writer. Barnes.
Foley stared at the paper. A life is lost. Good God, whose? He stared absently from the telegram to the postal clerk, who stared back, startled. Then Foley barged outside and rushed for the wharf. He had seen the Lady Goodnight dock. Finn would still be there.
But then he reckoned if Finn had news that bad, he would have gone to the Pastoral Hotel to seek Foley.
He bounded back towards the township and hurried into the bar. Ranald Finn was waiting patiently, two glasses of liquor on the bench in front of him. He sighted Foley the moment he entered the room and signalled to the corner table.
They seated themselves and exchanged greetings.
‘Ran, what’s this terrible news Barnes has?’
Finn tossed back his rum. ‘Where to start, Mr Foley? Seems some time ago there was a terrible dust storm at Jacaranda, and the old cook-house roof blew off. Story is, Mr MacHenry was in there and got himself fairly knocked on the head when one of the wooden beams fell in.’ He signalled the bartender for refills.
Conor swallowed his rum and held his glass up for another as the jug was brought to their table. ‘Is that it?’
Finn waited until the waiter left with his payment. ‘That’s what the McCormack boys will say if asked. But it’s just a story.’
Foley watched his captain hesitate. ‘Yes, and? I don’t have patience.’
Finn spread his hands. ‘The real story goes that Reilly had fingered the old man’s daughter and when MacHenry went berserk, he got himself done in, sir. By Reilly.’ He took his refilled glass and downed the rum in a swallow.
‘Murder?’ Foley stared at him in shock, then shook his head. ‘Tom MacHenry is dead—and Reilly killed him? I need more information, here, Ran.’
‘I don’t have much more, Mr Foley. Barnes wanted you there first, before the police. We haven’t notified them yet.’ Ranald Finn rubbed his weathered face, the sound of it like sand on paper. ‘The missus and the girl have locked themselves inside the big house and Reilly is locked in the cool room. Barnes threw him in a few bottles of rum hoping he’d kill himself, but it hadn’t happened by the time I arrived there.’
Foley shook his head again, and groaned. ‘What a godawful mess. We’ll get the Swan Hill police out there quickly.’
‘There’s something else I think you should know, Mr Foley.’ Ranald Finn’s mouth flattened.
‘Jesus. What?’ Foley’s elbows were on the table, his hands clasping, unclasping.
‘A new boat pulled in at the dock today. A passenger boat, sir. Beautiful, she is.’ Ranald Finn cocked his head. ‘I reckon you might recognise her if you saw her. I believe you were about to purchase her when Mrs Foley disappeared a while ago.’ Finn sat back, rolling his glass in his hands.
Foley stilled. ‘The Lady Georgina is here? Who bought her?’
‘A company, Melbourne Lands and Holdings. Partners are well-to-do, I believe.’
Foley grunted. ‘I don’t know the name.’ He blew out a breath. ‘Another operator on an already tired river. Don’t much like the idea of it, we’re just ahead in the passenger game.’ He was curious all the same. ‘I’ll make myself known to them. Ran, I need passage back to Jacaranda.’
Finn shrugged his shoulders. ‘Might be faster by horse, sir.’
‘No use battering a poor horse over a dead body. Barnes will have Reilly well in hand—I’ll ask around for passage to Jacaranda. Someone will be going past there down to Renmark. So, where did they bury MacHenry?’
‘About a hundred yards from the house.’
Foley nodded. He threw down his last rum, clapped Finn on the shoulder and instructed him to telegram Barnes, alerting him to his arrival within the next few days.
He strode back to the dock, the rum warming his stomach, but the news deadening his heart.
Of all the bloody things … And Reilly, that good-for-nothing piece of shit. The bastard. I hope I get to him before the police do.
The Lady Goodnight was still unloading; the Mitchell was awaiting her turn to take more freight, and as contracts were backlogged he didn’t want to commandeer her for his one-way trip up to Jacaranda. Foley passed the Gem and asked Captain King if he was going back towards Swan Hill. A shake of the head. Foley waved and stalked on.
He was about to ask Captain Spears of the Maiden when he spott
ed the gleaming white hull of the river’s newest boat not fifty yards from where he stood. He whistled softly through his teeth. He’d forgotten the splendour of the vessel he would have named the Lady Georgina.
Foley bounded towards it and smiled to himself as he read its name. Now she was the Sweet Georgie. If his fleet hadn’t had names prefixed with ‘Lady’, he might have chosen the same name. The Lady Mitchell ran a poor second to this boat. He whistled again in admiration. The vessel was slim-lined, sleek as he remembered, a dainty elegant river lady built for cruising. His interest in his rival grew. He would meet with the owners, formulate business dealings involving the boat. He would—
A voice addressed him from the deck below. ‘Afternoon.’
‘Afternoon.’ Foley smiled affably. ‘Just admiring this magnificent craft. Are you its owner?’
‘Yes.’ The black-haired man straightened up, made it obvious he was sizing up his visitor.
‘Beautiful. Nearly bought her myself.’ Foley was still smiling at the man on the boat. Was he familiar—had he met him somewhere before? ‘I was wondering if you might be taking her down river at all in the next few days. I need passage.’
‘We are at that. Passage shouldn’t be a problem, that’s what we’re here for.’
The reply was friendly enough, but the man’s tone sent warning bells tolling in Foley’s head. ‘Good. I want to be landed at Jacaranda.’
The momentary silence puzzled him.
Then the man said, ‘I thought you might.’
Foley shaded his eyes against the early afternoon sun and squinted down at the man on the boat. ‘Have we met?’
‘Mr Foley, I escorted Mrs Cawley to your wedding reception. I am Dane MacHenry.’
Foley stepped closer to the edge of the wharf, staring at the man. This was the ‘pimply-faced youth’ he had thought Tom MacHenry’s son to be. Of course, that explained the animosity—they were adversaries. And where on earth could MacHenry’s son have found himself such good fortune and wealth to be able to purchase such a fine vessel? ‘Ah, yes. I remember. I’m sorry I don’t recall we’d actually met.’ He also did not recall Georgina explaining to him who Dane MacHenry was. She had known his name after all. She had danced with him. The man she had purportedly run from, and been caught by—but that could wait.
What was MacHenry doing here? Would he already know of his father’s demise?
He found his voice again. ‘May I come aboard?’ At Dane’s delayed but curt nod, he found the closest manhole in the boardwalk and got to the lower tier on a level with the boat. He took the gang plank onto the vessel and offered his hand. ‘Conor Foley. I am pleased to meet you, though not under these circum—’
‘So, passage to Jacaranda. I suppose I should ask your permission to pull up at the landing there.’ Dane MacHenry barely gripped Foley’s hand before he let it drop.
‘No, no, of course not. Certainly not under these circumstances.’
Dane MacHenry looked at odds, and scowled. ‘I’m about to visit my parents. I trust there’ll be no embarrassment.’
Foley frowned. ‘You’ve received no word from Jacaranda lately?’
‘No. I’ve had my hands full these past months. This visit is part of the maiden journey.’
‘Look, I—may I presume upon you for a drink? Perhaps we could go below.’
Dane snorted. ‘I’m well aware of the situation at Jacaranda with you and my parents. It’s not necessary to—’
Foley interjected. ‘Very well. This is neither the appropriate time nor place, nor perhaps am I the best person to deliver this message.’ He straightened. ‘I certainly don’t know how else to tell you. My foreman has reported that your father is dead.’
Twenty-Four
The Sweet Georgie’s maiden voyage was subdued, hardly the type of journey Reuben Cawley had planned. He consoled himself with thoughts of the full and paying passenger list from Echuca to Goolwa, and of how the profits would come rolling in. Thank God this maiden run carried a little freight to cover wages.
He considered both Conor Foley and Dane MacHenry. He admired their restraint with each other, although Reuben was sure Conor Foley knew nothing of Dane’s story with the lovely Georgina. Reuben was also sure Dane would break before too long.
The mate Dane had employed allowed Reuben a turn at the wheel and he spent most of his time in the wheelhouse being carefully watched. Foley offered to take the wheel by night.
‘I’m glad of it, Dane.’ Reuben leaned over the stern rail just after Foley had entered the wheelhouse. He’d heard on the dock that the man’s navigation skills on the mighty, moody river were legendary. ‘It also means that by day, neither Foley nor you are very much in each other’s company.’
Dane, who rested his back against the rail, grunted and grudgingly agreed. ‘True. But do you see him? He can’t keep his hands off the boat. He can’t refrain from loudly wishing he’d been quicker to purchase her.’ Dane stared at the banks of the river receding in the dusk light. ‘Is he looking for a response as he repeats the tale of his wife’s disappearance from Jacaranda to Melbourne? My blood boils at every mention. And here I have to watch him enjoy our hospitality.’
‘You’re doing well, my friend.’
‘If Foley mentions one more time he was once going to name this boat the Lady Georgina, I’ll knock him to the ground.’
‘I don’t doubt you’d try,’ Reuben responded.
Dane was brooding and miserable, naturally, at the news of his father’s death, and in a quandary regarding Foley. Common sense told both of them Foley was not to blame for this terrible tragedy, but the black mood descended heavily day by day. There was little consolation for Dane MacHenry in his growing animosity towards Foley, who was obviously well known and well liked along the river, and by as many women as men.
The boat pulled in at one of the landings. The few crates of freight were unloaded, and more taken aboard. River business had to be acquitted for the new boat’s reputation despite the urgency of its sad maiden journey.
Foley winked at Dane and Reuben and disembarked, saying he would be back in a few hours. It was obvious the man had women all along the river and, married or not, it seemed he led the life of a single man.
‘I’m tempted to ask Foley if his wife knows of these jaunts.’ Dane watched as the big man strode up the banks and disappeared over the hill.
‘And that would be so beneath you, old friend, not to mention childish, churlish and certainly none of your business. The man can do as he wishes.’
‘Ever my conscience, Reuben.’
Reuben snorted, then slapped his friend on the back.
Landing at Jacaranda weighed on all of them. Reuben opted to stay on the boat.
When Dane and Foley arrived at the homestead, the situation became painfully clear. Jemimah and Elspeth, having seen Dane arrive from their vantage point inside the house, began screaming for his help.
Dane burst inside the house.
‘Dear God, Dane. Thank God.’ Jemimah clung to him.
He held out his other arm and Elspeth rushed in. Unusually quiet, his sister hugged him tightly.
‘You’re both all right?’ he asked over the top of his mother’s head.
‘Unwashed, a little hungry, but we are all right.’ Jemimah nodded her head against his chest. ‘The men have been kind, but bewildered for us. For themselves, too, I think.’
‘Damn the men. Ma … ?’
‘I’m all right, Dane. And Elspeth.’ She separated herself from him and tugged her daughter away. She straightened her clothes, and stood a little taller. ‘You look very fine.’
‘I don’t feel very fine.’ He felt his eyes water as he stared at his mother.
She gripped his hands. ‘You must see to … it, along with Mr Foley. Then, you must visit Tom’s—your father’s grave is over in the next paddock.’ Jemimah let him go and turned to the cupboard in which Tom had kept his rum.
She slid a rifle from on top. ‘While we have been
locked in here, I have cleaned and oiled it. It’s loaded.’
Dane strode from the house, Tom MacHenry’s Martini-Henry rifle by his side. Behind him, Jemimah was dry-eyed but Elspeth clutched at her mother, dishevelled and tearful.
‘Foley,’ he called. ‘My mother and sister can’t stay here now. I’d like to get them into Swan Hill as soon as possible.’
‘Of course.’ Foley looked at the two women, and approached them. ‘I am so sorry this has happened.’ He looked at Jemimah, who brought herself to her full height to face him.
‘I want to talk to the man who reported this to you.’ Dane’s interruption was brusque.
Foley nodded. ‘Barnes. He’s up by the cool room, where they’ve got Reilly.’
Dane stalked ahead of Foley.
Barnes came up quickly to greet them. He nodded at Dane, expressed his condolences, but addressed Foley. ‘Mr Foley, I dunno what to do. We need the coppers here. The Mac boys will talk in Swan Hill, that’s for sure.’
‘That’ll be all right, Barnes. We can say we reported it when we could.’ Foley flicked his hand at the trapdoor near their feet. ‘Is he tied up?’
‘No, sir. Was all we could do to throw him down there. I was hoping the rum woulda killed him by now, or us shoving him in the hole. Seems like he’s got some other agitation.’ Barnes tapped his head.
‘Let him up.’ Dane pulled the rifle onto his arm.
Foley nodded at Barnes who, with the help of two of the other men, hauled open the trapdoor. The bellowing, belligerent Irishman made his way up the shallow steps of the cellar. He squinted in the daylight and howled as the sun stung his eyes, then fell over the top of the opening and lay prone for a moment or two. Barnes and his men took a couple of steps back.
‘Reilly,’ Foley uttered in disgust. Reilly lifted his head, still squinting against the light. ‘You’ll hang for this, man.’
Reilly growled and spat into the dust. He turned his head towards the sound of the cock of the rifle’s loading mechanism. ‘I can’t see yer, but I can hear yer, Foley. So, you weak-as-piss excuse for a man, yer brung the troopers.’ He spat again and rubbed his eyes, swiping at the tears that flowed from them.