The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  Rudi waved his hand at her. ‘Get on with it. My patience is sorely tried.’

  ‘He seemed familiar. It was as simple as that, yet I couldn’t place him so I accepted his invitation to dine at his home the night you left for the Hunter, Rudi.’

  Sergey stifled a groan. Valentina’s admirer. The business she’d said she had to attend to before she left Sydney. The man she’d told him she was meeting and he had let her go, kept it quiet because he believed she deserved a little romance in her life.

  ‘As I said, the house was a palatial affair. Nothing made sense. My memory spoke of Van Diemen’s Land. But this man is wealthy, very wealthy. He didn’t belong in the back streets of Hobart Town. He wined and dined me, strawberry ices even, showered me with compliments, told me about his business interests and his contacts in Sydney and in the goldfields. He is an important man in society and well mannered, or so it seemed until I refused to allow him to have his way with me. Then he got nasty.’

  Rudi grunted and leapt to his feet with an agility that appeared to surprise him as much as it did Valentina. ‘He hurt you?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘A little. Not too much.’

  Sergey peered into his sister’s face. He knew every contour, every blemish and every mood, and the tiny flicker in the corner of her eye showed him she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  ‘Wait. Let me tell the story.’ Valentina shot Sergey a look, silencing him. ‘He became very amorous. I resisted his advances and he lost his temper. It was only then I recognised him, his voice changed, a twang of cockney London, of the gutter. I’d made the mistake of returning to his house. He left me in his study, locked the door.’

  ‘Where were Dan and Hawke? They were meant to be looking out for you.’

  ‘Rudi, they were taking down the big tent, helping Sergey load the wagons for the second steamer trip. I rummaged through the drawers of his desk, searched his study.’

  ‘You found this?’ Sergey waved the coin and then pointed to the ring on her finger. ‘The missing evidence. It’s Hal Waverley, isn’t it?’ An icy chill knifed through him. ‘Did he recognise you?’

  ‘Why should he? He hardly knew I existed. He saw only the equestrienne, Rudi’s Russian princess. I very much doubt he recognised you either, bare-chested astride a magnificent horse. A far cry from the dirty little guttersnipe you were in Van Diemen’s Land.’

  She was right. They’d all changed; Hal Waverley had seen to that, changed their lives. Sergey smacked his clenched fist into his palm, given the opportunity he’d change Waverley’s life and it wouldn’t be for the better either. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? Why try to deal with it yourself?’

  ‘Apart from the fact I was locked in his house, in his study, when you all boarded the steam kettles, what good would it have done? We needed proof. He looks so very different now. Not the thin-faced ferret he used to be. Waverley’s had too much good food and brandy, although he still favours waistcoats, slightly more flamboyant these days. It was better I dealt with him alone and he was more likely to recognise Rudi.’

  What was Waverley doing in some toff’s mansion? Sergey dragged his mind back to the first time he’d seen Catherine, the man sitting with her. A portly, older man, sporting a black top hat. Frigid fingers traced his spine. Catherine attended the circus with Hal Waverley? It wasn’t possible.

  ‘Except he no longer goes by that name and he’s very different to the pawnbroker of Van Diemen’s Land. He’s a gentleman. Rich, so very rich.’

  ‘Hardly a gentleman if he knocked you around. I’d like to get my hands on him.’ Rudi threw back the remains of his rum and slammed the pannikin down.

  ‘He calls himself Henry Bartholomew, Henry W. Bartholomew, in fact.’

  ‘Pompous prick,’ said Rudi.

  Bartholomew! The man who wanted to marry Catherine, the man she was running from. Sergey’s blood pumped wildly. ‘Where is he?’ he asked again. ‘You said you followed him to Bathurst.’ So Rudi’s guess was right. Waverley was unable to resist the lure of the goldfields.

  Rudi shot him a narrow-eyed look, telling him to keep his mouth. ‘Stick to the facts, Valentina. What happened next?’

  ‘I rummaged through his desk. I found the Spanish dubloon on the top and this bundle of promissory notes tied with a piece of ribbon in the drawer.’ She pointed to the pile of papers on the table. ‘And also this.’ She toyed with the sapphire ring though she had no need; he knew its significance well enough. ‘You realise what this means, don’t you?’

  Sergey picked up the notes and spread them out in front of him on the tabletop, ten one-pound promissory notes. He cast his mind back to the trial, when there was no mention of promissory notes. The dead man’s wife, Mrs Toombes, had listed the stolen items. They’d found the sapphire earbobs and broach, the four-penny pieces and two silver spoons in Nikolas’s coat pocket when they’d arrested him. She’d insisted there was a matching sapphire ring and an old Spanish dubloon but they were never found. And Nikolas had denied any knowledge of them. Sergey’s chest throbbed where the pistol rested. The pistol that had killed Toombes.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I grabbed everything that seemed important before I climbed out of the window. It was no great feat. Minnie and May would have managed it in one leap.’

  A smile flitted across Rudi’s rugged face. ‘That’s my girl.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t resist that little bauble.’ Sergey pointed to the sapphire ring sparkling in the lamp light. Valentina’s predilection for all things shiny had been a constant in her childhood, forcing them to keep her one step ahead of the constabulary. It had been a nightmare. This time it was worth it.

  Valentina had the grace to blush. ‘I know I promised but I simply couldn’t leave it. It is a significant part of the evidence.’

  ‘What would Batya think if he was alive?’ Sergey couldn’t help the dig. She deserved it. She’d made their father’s life a misery, shamed him, with her light-fingered ways.

  She pushed his comment aside and picked up one of the promissory notes. ‘These are dated 1846 and drawn on The Union Bank of Australia, Hobart.’

  ‘Union Bank? But there’s a branch not twenty miles from here.’ The very place Catherine had run to with Tilly’s promissory notes, also drawn on the Union Bank, but Sydney this time. ‘Why didn’t you bring them to us? Waverley right under our nose, in Sydney!’

  ‘I told you. You’d packed up and left, taken the steamer. I asked around town and Bartholomew had vanished. I think he planned to leave me locked in his house. When I met up with Dan and Hawke I sent them to try to find him. People said he’d left for the goldfields, he’s a gold buyer. It seemed more important to follow him than travel to Maitland. So we headed directly here.’

  Catherine hadn’t taken much time in making up her mind to go to the bank in Bathurst. Taken off the minute the storekeeper had knocked back the notes. Had she recognised Tilly’s notes? Known they’d come from Waverley, Bartholomew, the man her father intended her to marry? Sergey’s mind spun out of control.

  ‘When we arrived in Bathurst Dan and Hawke spent a day searching for him. Someone mentioned that he had gold-buying agents, storekeepers, in the Turon.’

  ‘You should’ve taken the steamer.’ Rudi slammed his palms down on the table. ‘Come directly to Maitland. Not taken matters into your own hands.’

  ‘I thought of that but it was a question of time and I didn’t want you to panic.’

  ‘Panic?’ Rudi heaved himself upright. ‘Now I am sick with panic.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to see me until the bruises had healed. I knew you’d be angry with me and …’ She looked down at her hands.

  Sergey moved the lamp and stared into her face. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought to question why her face was painted with the heavy makeup she wore for her performances. Beneath the powder and the black kohl lining her eyes he spotted the faint remnants of bruises.

  Sergey’s fists clenched and a vei
n pounded in his temples. ‘I’ll kill the bastard.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Valentina patted his hand. ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t come to Maitland. Waverley is no use to us dead. You said yourself you wanted to see him stand trial. Don’t let your emotions rule. That’s what you’ve always taught me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done this alone.’

  ‘I wasn’t alone. I was with Dan and Hawke. I thought it more important to follow Waverley. I didn’t imagine I’d find you here.’

  ‘There was no audience in Maitland. They’d all upped sticks seeking their fortune, so we followed. Like us, Waverley goes where the money is—anywhere he can offload his filthy forgeries.’

  Sergey let their conversation wash over him as he flicked through the promissory notes on the table. They bore an intricate pattern of swirls and coils and were dated Hobart, 1846. The year Nikolas hung. They placed him in Van Diemen’s Land. Waverley had to be behind it. The convicted forger turned pawnbroker still plied his trade, though he’d taken a step up in the world. Maybe they’d finally trip him up. ‘So Waverley is somewhere here.’ He lifted his head and found Valentina with her cheek on Rudi’s shoulder and her eyes closed.

  Valentina straightened up, leaving her hand clasped in Rudi’s rough paw. ‘We asked all around Bathurst, and then worked our way through the diggings around the Turon River. Thompson’s Point, Pyramul, Golden Point. We were heading for Sally’s Flat when I saw you on the road.

  ‘I’ve been asking around. Lots of diggers have notes drawn on the Union Bank that no one will honour. He’s been passing them off left, right and centre through his gold-buying agents,’ Valentina continued. ‘Nothing big. Small nuggets and dust from miners scraping a living who are waiting to hit the jackpot. It’s the same story everywhere.’

  The sense of foreboding settled in Sergey’s chest about as heavy as the forty-ounce nugget the blokes found at Oakey Creek, enough to make his breath stutter. What was Catherine’s part in all of this? If Hal Waverley and Bartholomew were one and the same Catherine had to know what he was up to.

  She’d rushed off to Bathurst, supposedly taking Tilly’s notes to the bank, but what if she’d known Waverley was in Bathurst and she’d gone to warn him the notes were being refused and people were onto him? He was a friend of her father’s. The man her father wanted her to marry. The man she said she was running away from, or was she? What rich squatter’s daughter would knock back marriage to a wealthy Sydney businessman and take off with a circus? Had Waverley put her up to it? Was it his way of keeping track of them, having Catherine fossick for information? Perhaps Waverley had recognised them the first time he went to the circus. The cold hard lump in his chest congealed.

  ‘So your lady friend is not quite the little innocent you thought her to be.’ Rudi’s words brought a flash of heat to his skin.

  His very thoughts. What the hell was taking her so long in Bathurst? Was she coming back or had she run to Waverley?

  ‘Would someone please explain to me what is going on?’ Valentina pushed the pile of promissory notes away from her and leant back in the chair.

  ‘It seems your little brother hasn’t been thinking with his head.’

  Sergey ignored Rudi’s taunt, even though it resounded with the truth. ‘Don’t you think we ought to give Catherine the opportunity to explain herself when she returns?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Who’s to say she will return?’ Rudi hit his fist on the table, sending the pile of notes fluttering to the ground.

  ‘Please, would someone tell me who this Catherine is and what she has to do with anything? This is the third time her name has been mentioned.’

  Sergey could see Rudi’s viewpoint and Valentina had every right to know about Catherine. ‘I might have made a mistake.’ The cold hand grasped his heart and twisted. How could Catherine be a mistake?

  ‘He rescued a damsel in distress. He was hoodwinked.’

  ‘I’ll ask one more time. Would one of you please tell me what is going on?’ Valentina waved her hand at Rudi and he sat back, a look of smug self-satisfaction plastered across his face. ‘Sergey?’

  ‘Her name is Catherine Cottingham. Her father died and she was being forced into an arranged marriage. She needed to disappear until she reached twenty-one and could come into her inheritance in her own right. She is a wonderful rider, and with you goodness only knows where we needed another equestrienne for the show. Minnie and May were less than useless.’

  ‘You replaced me?’ Valentina’s eyes widened and stared at him from her flushed face.

  ‘No. You were elsewhere and we needed another act. Catherine was only ever to be with us until you returned or she reached her majority, whichever came first.’ He’d hoped she’d be with them forever, another of his foolish dreams.

  ‘Get to the point, Sergey. Are you going to tell Valentina who Catherine’s intended husband is or am I?’

  He swallowed the bile in his throat. ‘Catherine’s intended husband was, is, Henry W. Bartholomew.’

  Valentina’s hand came to her mouth. ‘The girl from the circus in Sydney, the one with the golden hair, the one Tsar said had captivated your heart.’

  Why was it his big sister could still grind him into the ground with that penetrating glare? He eased the words out of his mouth like cherry pits. ‘One and the same.’

  ‘You think Waverley put her up to it? That he knew we were onto him?’

  ‘It seems something more than a coincidence.’ Sergey lent down and picked up the scattered promissory notes.

  ‘What about this?’ Valentina turned the ring on her finger and gestured to the table.

  ‘A Spanish dubloon, bent on one side, and a sapphire ring. Add in the matching earbobs and broach, a quantity of four-penny pieces and the two silver spoons found in Nikolas’s coat pocket and we have everything Mrs Toombes claimed was stolen,’ Sergey said. ‘Waverley has to be responsible. The pistol and the items in Nikolas’s coat pocket were handed into the court as evidence. They returned the pistol to me after Nikolas hung, said it was part of his effects.

  ‘I’d hazard a guess Waverley used the proceeds of his various robberies, filtered through his pawnshop, to set up his new life in Sydney, only the last one went wrong and he killed Toombes, the poor sod.’ And let Nikolas hang for a crime he didn’t commit.

  ‘I suspect he’d been setting himself up for a long time.’ Valentina twirled the ring. ‘Why on earth didn’t he get rid of this?’

  ‘Because he’s an arrogant prick. Thought he was above the law.’ Rudi shook his head.

  Sergey reached for the bent Spanish doubloon. ‘There’s no mistaking this.’ He slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘What about the promissory notes?’

  Sergey smoothed out one of the notes and then lifted it to the light. He ran a shaking finger over the swirling pattern surrounding the note. The same. The same as Tilly’s promissory notes, which Catherine had taken to Bathurst.

  ‘So you’ve noticed, have you?’ Rudi folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘Yes.’ There was no point in saying otherwise. ‘They’re very much like the ones Catherine has taken to Bathurst.’

  ‘Looks like Waverley was onto us,’ Rudi said. ‘Then when the circus moved to Maitland he saw Catherine as the perfect person to keep an eye on us. He must’ve thought we’d tracked him down.’

  Sergey groaned. ‘It would seem so.’ That was why Catherine invited them to move the camp to Cottington Hill. Then, when Valentina didn’t arrive, she had the perfect opportunity to inveigle her way into the circus. He’d been played for a fool, a bloody fool. Caught like Nikolas. Worse. By a woman. He shot to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see whether Catherine is back from Bathurst and find out what the hell she’s playing at.’

  The sunlight slanted through the window, waking her. She rolled over and pushed back the somewhat dirty blanket and stretched. A quick cup of tea and she’d be on her way. Timmy wo
uld have the horses ready and they’d be back in the Turon by early afternoon with a pocket full of money for Tilly.

  She eyed her dress and jacket and shook them out, grimacing at the creases that still radiated like a spider’s web across the fabric. They would have to do. Once she’d presented Tilly’s notes to the Union Bank they’d be back on the road and no one would care how she was dressed. It was ludicrous that the jumped-up storekeeper had refused to exchange the promissory notes.

  Despite the early hour the streets were packed with people going about their business, opening the shops and sweeping out yesterday’s dust. Making a beeline for the big stone building on the corner, Catherine adjusted her gloves and lifted her chin, then swung the door open. A head-high brass grill ran the length of a polished cedar counter and an aloof-looking young man with neatly parted hair studied her.

  ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I wish to speak with the manager.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ He tilted his shiny nose.

  ‘No. I do not.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid it’s out of the question.’

  ‘I wish to discuss the validity of some promissory notes.’

  The young man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a trapped fly. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Please take a seat.’ He gestured to a row of chairs against the wall.

  She drew herself up to her full height and peered down at him. With a sigh she turned and settled herself on one of the chairs resting against the wall and tried hard to compose her features into a calm expression, all the while her heart hammering like the circus drum.

  Quite why, she had no idea. She wasn’t doing anything illegal and Tilly was entitled to her money. The promissory notes were drawn on the Union Bank. This was the Union Bank, they specified pay bearer and she was the bearer.

  She fumbled with the drawstring of her reticule and then stilled her fingers; far better to wait until the manager appeared before she brought them out. Cool, calm and unflustered. She tucked her dirty boots under the hem of her skirt and took a deep breath, willing her pulse to settle.