Shadow of the Osprey

by Peter Watt

  Enid listened impassively. At least that is how she appeared. So Granville was instrumental in the death of her David. For that he would pay dearly! The policeman was only confirming what she had always suspected and the wheels had already been set in motion for her son-in-law’s demise as a power in the colony. Revenge would come slowly but surely. Granville would pay dearly for the murder of David, she vowed. And so too her daughter for siding with him.

  ‘I realise that what this Jack Horton told me could prove to be an embarrassment to the good name of yourself and your family, Lady Macintosh,’ Kingsley said, balancing a teacup and saucer on his knee as he munched at a cucumber sandwich. ‘So I thought it best to tell you first. Only fair.’

  Enid stared coldly at the man across the room from her. His manners were atrocious and his feigned servile demeanour insulting. She well knew why the detective had come to her with the information instead of going to his superiors. ‘I know I am speaking for my late husband when I say how grateful we are for your consideration in this matter, Mister Kingsley,’ she said politely. ‘I am sure a gift of money might express our gratitude for your discretion.’

  Kingsley could detect the contempt in her voice. In his job he had long learned to read the difference between a person’s words and the way they said them. A cunning look came over his face. ‘Any amount Lady Enid,’ he replied solicitously. ‘I trust you know how much my discretion is worth. But no cheques. I prefer that you pay me in the legal tender of the colony.’

  She nodded her understanding. The policeman was shrewd and this might be a sign of some intelligence – hopefully enough for him to realise that reneging on the deal to remain silent could prove detrimental to himself as much as to the Macintosh name. ‘I happen to have enough to pay you presently. If you wait here I will fetch it,’ she said, rising to go to the library.

  When she returned she passed the notes to the detective. He stuffed the money into the pocket of his trousers and scooped up the last of the sandwiches from the silver salver.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ Enid said as the detective prepared to leave. ‘I will be needing your services as a policeman in the future.’ Kingsley looked surprised. ‘Although we both understand the rather sensitive nature of what has been confided to you by Mister Horton, I may have recourse to call on you to give evidence in a court of law as regarding Captain Mort’s involvement in the murder of the native girls.’

  ‘Of course, Lady Macintosh,’ Kingsley replied. ‘It is my duty to give evidence in criminal matters.’

  ‘Then I would like you to speak to Mister Daniel Duffy of the law firm Sullivan & Levi. They are located in the city.’

  ‘I know Mister Duffy,’ the detective growled. ‘He and I have had occasion to clash over cases in the Petty Sessions.’

  ‘Then you will appreciate Mister Duffy enjoys somewhat of a formidable reputation as a practitioner of the law,’ Enid said with just a touch of satisfaction. ‘I would like you to tell him in confidence all that you have told me here today, with the exception of matters relating to the conspiracy to kill Michael Duffy.’ Kingsley frowned and Enid added, ‘Michael Duffy was Mister Daniel Duffy’s cousin. I have my reasons for your silence on that matter.’ Kingsley nodded his understanding and after the maid had shown him out Enid stood and walked across to the big bay window to look down on the policeman walking down the crushed gravel driveway. The information concerning Michael Duffy’s innocence had come too late for the unfortunate man, she thought idly as she watched the policeman disappear through the wrought iron gate. But even if he had been alive she doubted that she would have revealed what she knew of his apparent innocence. No, Michael Duffy might have proved to be a formidable man to deal with had he lived, she realised, recalling his magnetic attraction to her daughter Fiona, an attraction that had been powerful enough to produce a son.

  She dismissed any thought of declaring Michael’s innocence to Daniel Duffy as she could see no value in the proposition. It was not in her nature to have the man who had stolen her daughter’s heart perceived as a martyr. She turned away from the window and let a rare smile purse her lips. The ironies of life, she thought. That the son of a man who she had once hated with the venom of her class for Papists was the key to destroying her most hated of enemies – her own daughter and her daughter’s husband. Very soon it would be time to activate a contract formulated so long ago in the Botanic Gardens between herself and the Irish lawyer Daniel Duffy.

  The house that Fiona White shared with her estranged husband had been a wedding gift to her from her father. A two-storey stone house with a sweeping coachway, it was in many ways a replica of the elegant family mansion of her estranged mother Lady Enid Macintosh. And, as with her family estate, Fiona thought of it as a house rather than a home.

  In the early hours of the evening an elegant carriage brought her to the entrance of the house and Fiona was helped down by her driver who bid her a good evening as she walked up the broad steps. At the front door she was met by a maid who followed her through to the drawing room where her two daughters, Dorothy and Helen, sat with their nanny, happily playing with porcelain dolls. Dorothy, the elder at nine years of age, was very much like her aunt Penelope in appearance and had also inherited her extroverted nature. Helen, the younger at eight years, took very much after her mother with her dark looks and emerald green eyes.

  With grave faces her daughters bid their mother a good evening. Spontaneous expressions of delight were not encouraged by the nannies. Young ladies must learn to control their emotions.

  Fiona asked polite questions about her daughters and was assured by the stern woman that the two girls had been veritable angels. Fiona gazed at their serious little faces staring back at her and gave them an impulsive hug. She watched as her daughters were bustled up the stairs by the nanny who chided them for their unladylike outburst of delight when their mother had embraced them.

  The two girls were growing so fast and Fiona reflected guiltily on how little time she had spent with them. She had promised herself that her daughters would receive the attention that her own mother had denied her. But there always seemed to be functions to attend, dinners to organise and the constant social visits to support Granville’s growing position of prestige in colonial society. Indeed the nanny saw more of the girls than she did, just as her own gentle Molly O’Rourke had spent more time with her than her own mother had. And now she was growing daily in the same mould as her severe and unyielding mother. If only Molly could be there to advise her.

  But the gentle and loving Irish nanny was long gone. Fiona missed her more than she missed any person in her life. It was not a yearning she could admit as Molly had been little more than a paid servant carrying out what was expected of her. Often she would find herself searching for Molly in the areas of Sydney where the Irish tended to congregate. But she was never among the faces she saw pass by her carriage. Molly had simply disappeared and her mother remained tight-lipped as to her whereabouts.

  Fiona hated her mother even more for the silence that denied her a chance to confront Molly. She wanted to ask the woman she had trusted above all others in the world just one question. Why had she betrayed her, the person who she professed to love above all others? Why had she conspired with her mother Lady Macintosh to have her newborn disposed of at one of the infamous baby farms?

  When the two little girls had been tucked into bed by their nanny, Fiona dismissed the servants for the night, and went up to her room. She had not shared her bed with Granville since the night six years earlier when she had slept with her beautiful cousin Penelope.

  Fiona shed her cumbersome clothes and stood naked before the mirror. She admired her body as she knew her cousin admired her in the privacy of their world – Penelope’s bed. The birth of her two daughters had done little to alter her soft shape except to fill out her small breasts. She cupped them in her hands and was displeased to feel that they sagged a little more each year. Even so, Penelope found her desirable, a
nd that was what mattered most.

  Fiona sat on her bed and sighed. She ached to feel Penelope’s body against hers, to feel her moist lips on her breasts and the sweet taste of her mouth on her own. But Penelope had made excuses for not being able to be with her this night. Had her desire been prompted by the unexpected memories of Michael Duffy that the meeting with the mysterious, handsome American provoked? His uncanny resemblance to Michael aroused bittersweet memories of the younger man whom she had briefly loved. And she found herself thinking about the son who had been taken from her at birth.

  How different things might have been if only Michael Duffy had lived to be part of her life. But she knew that Michael would not have forgiven her for allowing Enid to dispose of their child. The child had probably been sent to one of the infamous baby farms where unwanted babies were slowly starved to death. Had her baby lived he would have grown to be a young boy by now, eleven years old! What would he have looked like? Like Michael, or would he have had the Macintosh looks?

  The thoughts of her lost child brought bitter tears to her eyes. She had often hoped that her son was actually with a good family, growing into a young man who would search for her one day. She forced away the tears and refused to allow her thoughts to dwell on her loss. Still, she wondered what life might have been with him if Penelope had not touched that hidden part of her. Was it that her desire for another woman had always been just below the surface? She knew the sensual love between two women was wrong. But Penelope’s bed was a different universe, not part of the world she knew in her day-to-day life. How could the feelings her beautiful cousin aroused be wrong in the eyes of her unforgiving Christian God? Had not women in past times and cultures shared with each other that special kind of love that only one woman could give another?

  Fiona sighed, slipped between the sheets and drifted into a troubled sleep.

  George Hilary’s young apprentice fetched his boss to the front counter. A potential customer was perusing the stocks of rifles on display and had asked some particularly difficult technical questions beyond the knowledge of the apprentice gunsmith.

  Hilary entered from the back of his shop, beaming his customary smile for anyone prepared to buy his lethal merchandise. He was greeted with the promising sight of a well-dressed, portly gentleman carrying a silver-topped cane, all of which appeared to indicate some moderate financial means. A potential customer for one of the more expensive sporting guns, Hilary calculated, rather than the stock of ruggedly functional Snider rifles for use on the frontier. ‘Yes sir, and what can I do for you?’ Hilary asked by way of greeting.

  The portly man turned from a display case of expensive English Tranter pistols. ‘You are Mister George Hilary I presume sir,’ he said, ‘the proprietor of this shop.’

  Hilary nodded. ‘I am sir.’

  ‘Good! I prefer to do business with the proprietor rather than the servant,’ Horace said, extending his hand to the gun dealer.

  Hilary quickly wiped his greasy hand on his trousers before accepting the extended hand. ‘I am Mister Horace Brown. Gentleman wanderer of these parts.’

  Remittance man, Hilary thought as he shook hands. Still, they usually had some money and a lot of idle time to spend shooting. ‘I see that you were looking at the Tranters. Good choice for personal protection,’ Hilary said, removing one of the weapons from its case. He held it at arm’s length and pointed at the busy street through the glass pane splashed with his name and occupation. ‘Five shot double action, gun of choice for any man who wishes for the best insurance on his life.’

  ‘The gun of choice for the bushranger,’ Horace said with a smile.

  Hilary dropped his arm and gave a short cough to clear his throat. ‘Men who know their guns Mister Brown,’ he retorted defensively. ‘The only insurance they have.’

  ‘I was looking more in the line of a rifle,’ Horace said, turning his attention to a rack of Sniders. ‘Preferably one of those new Winchester repeating rifles that load a metal cartridge.’

  Hilary replaced the revolver in its case where it lay surrounded by smaller compartments containing tins of percussion caps, lubricated bullets and a flask of black powder. ‘I’m afraid I do not stock Winchester rifles Mister Brown,’ he replied. ‘But I can sell you a Spencer in good condition. A carbine favoured by the Northern forces in the late war between the American states.’

  ‘It was just that I had the good fortune to voyage from Samoa,’ Horace said, ‘with a gentleman from America who dealt in Winchesters. I thought he might have been selling them to Sydney gun dealers. I regret now that I did not take the opportunity to purchase one from him when we were aboard the Boston.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mister O’Flynn’s merchandise was not for sale,’ Hilary frowned. ‘They have already been sold.’

  ‘Ahh. You know the man I speak of,’ Horace said with a disarming smile. ‘A true gentleman.’

  The gun dealer glanced sharply at the portly little man with some suspicion. ‘We have met,’ he replied shortly, ‘on a professional basis.’

  ‘A pity to learn that Mister O’Flynn has already sold his rifles to someone else,’ Horace said casually. ‘I don’t suppose you might extend me the courtesy of telling me to which Sydney gun dealer he has sold his consignment so that I might inquire as to the purchase of one of those splendid guns.’

  ‘The Snider is more effective in stopping a myall if that is why you wish to purchase such a gun,’ the gun dealer replied grumpily, as he sensed that he was about to lose a customer. ‘The Winchester is little more than a glorified revolver. Fires a light round. Won’t stop a savage blackfella.’

  ‘That might be,’ Horace mused. ‘But the Winchester fires a lot of bullets.’

  ‘Well, I am afraid I cannot help you,’ Hilary growled. ‘I don’t know who Mister O’Flynn sold his consignment to.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Horace retorted. ‘I would have assumed such a large consignment of Winchester’s latest rifles would have been the cause of great interest amongst gun dealers such as yourself, sir.’

  ‘If that is all I can help you with, sir,’ Hilary replied in a manner which indicated that the conversation was at an end, ‘I regret that I must get back to my business and no doubt you to yours. Good day sir.’

  ‘I will also bid you a good day Mister Hilary,’ Horace said with an audible sigh to show his disappointment. ‘I am sorry that we could not do business together.’

  On the footpath outside the gun dealer’s shop Horace paused to consider what he had learned from the brief encounter with O’Flynn’s first Sydney contact. Not much at all. But somewhere in the colony there were enough repeating rifles to equip a small force of men with considerable firepower. For whatever purpose they had in mind.

  Inside the gun shop George Hilary scowled as he watched the portly little man standing in deep thought outside his shop. He had felt uneasy about the seemingly innocent remarks by the remittance man. Should he get a message to the American about the encounter with Mister Brown?

  He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. Surely a man as insignificant as Mister Brown could not be a threat to the likes of the tough American.

  That evening Michael Duffy sat opposite Penelope von Fellmann at the dining table in her home. The flickering candlelight gave him the devilish appearance of a man well acquainted with life’s vices and his eye patch gave him the rakish look of the old-time English pirates, Penelope mused as she appraised him across the table. During her visit to his hotel room she had seen the scars that covered his muscled body and her long fingers had traced the ugly welt that ran along his ribs. Michael had flinched at the touch of her sharp curved nails.

  ‘Reb bayonet,’ he had growled.

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘Maori axe.’

  ‘And how did you lose your eye?’

  ‘Shrapnel. Not sure if it was ours or the Rebs’,’ he answered, as her fingers had lovingly stroked the scars and welts of his naked body.


  With her tongue she had traced the scar from a Commanche knife along his ribs. His body read like the saga of some mystical warrior. A wicked, fleeting thought of the women of ancient Rome who were reputed to have drunk the blood of the gladiators fresh from combat in the arena had crossed her mind, causing her to shiver with a delicious ecstasy for the pleasures she and her Roman sisters had experienced. Lust associated with violence – and Michael her modern-day gladiator.

  ‘Well, Baroness, I guess you will tell me why I am here,’ Michael said, fixing her dreamy gaze through the soft glow of the candles.

  The polished teak table reflected his image as clearly as a mirror. Penelope snapped back to the present, now musing that he was much like the reflection on the table. Two men: one a very dangerous warrior; the other a gentle and creative lover.

  ‘I like it when you call me Baroness,’ she replied with a slow smile of satisfaction for the power she wielded. ‘It makes me feel as if I am your mistress to command you as I will. To call on you for any service I should desire.’

  ‘Right now, I am hardly in any position to upset you,’ he growled quietly, ‘knowing what you know about my past.’

  ‘You are right in that assumption Michael,’ she said haughtily. ‘I dare say the police in Sydney would be more than surprised – and pleased – to know that you are alive and able to stand trial for murder.’ She hesitated when she noticed the dangerous change in his expression as Michael toyed with a crystal goblet of burgundy wine in front of him. ‘But I can promise you that I am not about to reveal your identity,’ she added quickly.

  They were alone after the meal. The servants had been dismissed from their duties after the table had been cleared. Penelope was wearing one of her more revealing dresses that showed her large but firm breasts to their best advantage. She was proud too of her narrow waist and wide hips. But she could see from the way the Irishman toyed with the crystal glass that his mind was elsewhere and that he was not entirely smitten with her as she hoped he would be. ‘What are you thinking Michael?’ she probed. ‘Are you thinking about Fiona?’