Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  ‘I received a message that you have a story for me concerning Captain Duffy?’ Larson said bluntly. ‘You do realise that I work for Lady Macintosh?’

  Granville forced himself to appear calm. ‘It is for that reason I decided to call you in rather than have any other journalist be the first to break the story.’

  ‘What story, Mister White?’ Larson asked.

  Granville detected just the hint of a journalist's sudden interest in the scent of something worth a headline and began to relax. He knew how he would manipulate the meeting and win Enid's own editor on his side.

  ‘I am afraid the story concerning Captain Duffy is one that, no matter how much we would attempt to conceal the facts, would eventually get out. Knowing this I decided that you should be the first to know, and somehow break the story with as little damage as possible to the reputation of Captain Duffy.’

  ‘Any damage to Captain Duffy's reputation will also reflect on Lady Macintosh,’ Larson replied with a frown. ‘My position as chief editor with the paper won't be worth a penny.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ Granville said. ‘After the story concerning Captain Duffy is out I am sure the board of directors will insist on me taking charge of all the enterprises. And that includes the newspaper. I think you know what that will mean for your future.’

  He could see that Larson was thinking very hard but not entirely convinced. It was time to tell the story.

  ‘Recently George Hobbs brought a matter to me of grave importance. It seems he could no longer bear to be party to what appears to be Captain Duffy's rather treacherous acts.’

  ‘With all respect, Mister White,’ Larson scoffed. ‘It's well known that George Hobbs has always been loyal to her ladyship. I find it hard to believe that he just suddenly decides to mention something that might embarrass her.’

  ‘Would this convince you?’ Granville said, sliding the now dry statement across the desk. Larson read the statement and Granville could see from the sagging of the newspaperman's jaw that he was almost convinced. ‘Hobbs would corroborate these words?’ Larson asked, holding up the paper.

  ‘You can question him yourself,’ Granville replied. ‘As a matter of fact, I can have one of my men fetch him here, to do so if you wish.’

  Larson shook his head.

  ‘Hobbs mentions John O'Grady as the recipient of the payments,’ Larson said quietly, as if chastened by what he had read. ‘How does he know about O'Grady's subversive activities against the Crown?’

  ‘I suppose he reads your paper to know that, Mister Larson,’ Granville replied with a wry smile. ‘We have all read about that Fenian's rabble rousing activities in Sydney to raise funds for his treacherous compatriots back in Ireland.’

  ‘And Hobbs has dutifully recorded the payments, supposedly made by Captain Duffy?’

  ‘Duffy underestimated Mister Hobb's loyalty to the Crown,’ Granville countered when he noticed a doubt cloud the astute newspaperman's face. ‘He made a presumption that Hobbs's sense of loyalty to the family would be greater than his loyalty to the Queen.’

  ‘It's all a bit circumstantial,’ Larson said, toying with the hat in his lap. ‘But I have a duty to investigate the story and publish the truth.’

  ‘That is all I ask, Mister Larson,’ Granville said with a smile. ‘An act of treason cannot be dismissed – no matter who is involved.’

  ‘I will talk to O'Grady,’ Larson said as he rose to leave. ‘If he confirms that he has been receiving regular amounts from a benefactor – amounts that correspond with those recorded in your ledgers-then I suppose I have no choice.’

  Granville knew that the Fenian would unwittingly implicate Patrick. The payments had been made, at a financial cost to Granville, and duly appeared as from the mysterious benefactor only known as ‘The Captain’. Granville trusted the editor to have the ability to get at least that much out of the Irishman. Newspapermen were good at that sort of thing.

  ‘Should I find that your accusations are founded in my investigation,’ Larson said in parting, ‘I will not publish the story until Captain Duffy returns from Africa. It is only fair that I hear his side of the story.’

  ‘I would expect no less,’ Granville replied, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘I am sure that Captain Duffy will naturally refute his role in the affair.’

  Larson did not reply but closed the door behind him. As much as he disliked White, from the knowledge that he had obtained over the years concerning the man's reputation for dabbling in seamy deeds, he had to admit the evidence would stand up in a court of law. Even if the courts were to find the man innocent, the mud would stick, and the conservative members of the Macintosh board insist on Granville White taking full control. Duffy would be out and her ladyship could not live forever.

  Besides, being a man of integrity he was also a practical man, who knew that he would do his job, and let the facts lead where they may. At least he had granted Captain Duffy a chance to defend himself. Larson had been perceptive enough to note the bitter disappointment in White's face when he had informed him of the delay to any headline. That was at least a little satisfaction to the newspaper man who happened to like his boss, Lady Macintosh.

  He left Granville White smirking at how easy it had been to discredit his hated enemy. With Duffy out of the business Enid had lost her most powerful ally against him. All it took was a little money and a reputation for absolute ruthlessness to achieve his aims.

  Granville's smirk slowly evaporated as his carriage rattled along the streets bound for his sister's house. Despite his clever scheme to discredit Duffy he might still be thwarted by letters that had been brought to his attention by his solicitors this very day. It was a matter that must be sorted out if he was to consolidate his share of the Macintosh companies and only one person was standing in his way. The one person who had in the past denied him a son and heir.

  The carriage rattled to a stop outside the darkened house. Granville stepped from the vehicle and glanced around nervously. Although the alcohol consumed at his club had fortified his courage he was skittish that Fiona might not be alone. He feared that his sister Penelope might be with her and Granville had long learned – and with good cause – to fear her. It did not take brute strength to be a dangerous adversary, just a fertile mind for plots and counterplots. Penelope had inherited that ability as had he.

  When he rapped on the door he was met by a sleepy and surly maid in her nightdress who was about to chide him for the unexpected and late visit. ‘I am Mister Granville White,’ he said arrogantly. ‘And I have come to visit with my wife. So stand aside woman and allow me to pass.’

  The sleep addled maid attempted to bar him but he brushed past her and in the process handed her his hat and cape. Confused, she accepted the items and he was gone before she could react any further. She glanced out the door to the carriageman waiting patiently on the driver's seat. ‘It's all right, love,’ he said with a grin. ‘Mister White is married to Missus White.’

  She shrugged and shuffled back to her room. It was obvious from his means that the man was not some street ruffian and if he was visiting his wife then it was no concern of hers. Missus White was a guest of the Baron's house and her duty was to the Baron and the Baroness.

  Granville found his wife in her room and she sat up as the door swung open. He was framed in the doorway against the light of the hall and instinctively Fiona drew the bed sheets around her chin. He entered and sat in a chair beside a chest of drawers in a corner of her room.

  ‘What are you doing here, Granville?’ she asked in a frightened voice.

  ‘Oh, I thought you could guess the reason for my very rare visit to your boudoir,’ he said with a slight slur.

  She knew immediately he had been drinking. He was most dangerous when he was drunk! ‘I want you to get out immediately,’ she hissed.

  But he only chuckled as he proceeded to light a thin cigar. For a moment the flare of the match framed his sweat glistened face in the dim light of t
he room. ‘You may be under my sister's roof, dear wife, but I am legally your husband with rights I can take any time I so desire. Remember that well.’

  Fiona tightened her grip on the sheets and felt a wave of nausea well in her throat. Dear God! He had come to force his unwanted attentions on her!

  ‘I have come to ask you why my daughters have turned against me?’ he said in a menacing tone which did nothing to allay her panic.

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ Fiona answered honestly. ‘How can you say your daughters have turned against you when you haven't seen them in years?’

  ‘Because both have rejected my offer to buy out their shares in the Macintosh companies. I received a letter today from Germany.’

  Now Fiona was fully aware of her husband's reason for visiting her room. ‘They are old enough to know what is best for them, Granville,’ she replied. ‘If they wish to retain their shares in the companies, then that is their prerogative.’

  ‘You know damned well that they would have sold to me as their father. Unless they were advised otherwise.’

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ Fiona lied.

  ‘Damned liar of a whore,’ Granville hissed back savagely. ‘Dorothy had already written that she and Helen were advised by you not to sell to me.’

  Fiona did not reply. She wondered if he was bluffing in an attempt to make her admit her lie. She had advised her daughters not to mention that she had requested them to retain their shares. Denial now would be fruitless – and silence less incriminating.

  ‘Or did your mother write to them?’ he pondered as he sucked on the cigar, filling the bedroom with the acrid smoke. ‘I wouldn't put it past her.’

  He had been bluffing, she thought with a rush of relief. Dorothy had not broken her confidence.

  ‘No matter,’ he brooded. ‘I will take a trip to Germany, after I arrange the sale of Glen View, and put my case to them.’

  ‘You cannot sell Glen View,’ Fiona said with a shock. ‘The place is very special to my family.’

  ‘Your family!’ he exploded. ‘Ha! You despise your mother and always told me you would do anything within your power to hurt her.’ It was then that the thought crept to him that Lady Enid was not the only family she had. ‘You mean that bastard son of yours, Patrick Duffy. Don't you? Is it that you plan to buy my daughters' shares yourself?’

  Fiona felt the bile rising again in her throat. ‘My protest is in regards to you selling the place where my brother and father are buried, Granville. Nothing more. But you would not understand a woman's sentimentality for such things.’

  ‘My sister would,’ he snarled. ‘Do you discuss sentimental things when you are in bed together, dear wife? Or do you cry out with pleasure for the things she does to your body?’

  Fiona felt her face burning as her husband suddenly turned on the most precious bond she had formed outside that for her children. A bond she did not expect anyone other than her gentle and passionate lover of many years to understand. ‘What do you do to each other when you are in bed together?’ he asked savagely. ‘Do you …’

  ‘Shut up, Granville,’ she snapped. ‘Shut your filthy mouth. As if you can talk. You with your penchant for young girls. Oh, I know all about your depraved ways. I know all about the girl, Jenny Harris, and how she bore you a son when she was only thirteen.’

  Granville blanched at the mention of a subject he had thought she was unaware of and regretted goading her into the revelation. The ever-occurring thought of his wife in the arms of his own sister had almost driven him to the point of madness many times. ‘Does your precious son know that his mother is a whore who sleeps with another woman?’ Granville countered.

  But Fiona was determined not to let him blackmail her. ‘I doubt that anything else said about me could make him hate me anymore than he does now,’ she retorted as Granville shrugged his shoulders. ‘You might as well know,’ she continued, ‘I have made arrangements to take a passage to Germany at the end of the year to live permanently with Penelope and my daughters. Oh, and before you ask what Manfred thinks of the arrangement I can assure you he fully approves. You see, he is a real man.’

  At the intended slur upon his manhood Granville rose from the chair and advanced on his wife. She tensed with an eruption of naked fear for the unbridled hate that filled the room and which threatened to explode in violence towards her. But he hesitated just as he was about to hit her. A mask-like smile loomed over her, an evil cunning emanated from her husband's face. ‘You are not worth all the pain you have caused me,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘I have ways of hurting you that you could not imagine in your worst nightmares.’

  He backed away and turned for the open door. Fiona watched him leave, slamming the door after him. She lay in the dark too petrified to release her grip on the sheets around her chin. She knew her husband too well. His threat was not an idle one. Somehow she knew that his parting statement involved Patrick.

  In the Great Australian Bight the Lady Jane fought the giant rolling black seas chilled by the currents of the Antarctic Ocean. Patrick Duffy stood on the deck, just as he had as a child sailing via the Cape of Good Hope for England with his grandmother many years earlier. The cracking of the hemp rigging securing the huge expanse of square canvas sails brought back many memories.

  The bow of the graceful ship rose on a wave and slid with a terrifying falling speed into the trough below. She wallowed for just a moment as she fought off the seas which threatened to crash over the stern while the wind howled with an eerie banshee cry that reminded Patrick of his ancient Irish heritage. The furious winds soaked him in a fine mist of salty water but he cared little for the discomfort as he stood gripping the rails. For here in the vast loneliness of the ocean he could reflect on all that was his life. And in his pocket was the tiny stone goddess Sheela-na-gig.

  The captain of the Lady Jane had informed him at dinner that night they would be in docking in Port Elizabeth, God willing and the winds prevailing, within four weeks. Not soon enough for Patrick who had never thought he would return to Africa. And what would he do when he finally confronted his father who was now his competitor for the love of Catherine?

  But the howling winds of the southern ocean gave him no answers and he turned away from the ship's rail to make his way cautiously down the rolling deck of the clipper. He would share a game of gin rummy and a bottle of whisky with the captain.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The last person Gordon believed he would ever see again was Sarah Duffy. She stood on the verandah of the Balaclava homestead staring at him with an enigmatic expression.

  Astride his mount, and with his troopers and his prisoner in tow, he felt confusion race through his weary body like currents of electricity. His and Sarah's eyes met and he was aware of neither happiness – not that he would expect such a reaction – nor bitterness as he would also expect. Just an unfathomable depth to her eyes that said nothing.

  ‘Dismount!’ he ordered and the troopers slid gratefully from their saddles to stretch their tired bodies in the dusty yard that surrounded the homestead which was far grander than that of Glen View.

  Sarah said nothing as she watched the troopers yank roughly at the white man who still remained in the saddle of his mount. His hands were manacled and he looked very ill. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the crown of his head under his hat.

  Calder barely resisted the rough handling. He was indeed very ill from the blow to his head inflicted by Terituba's war axe and often over the two days that it had taken to reach the Balaclava property Gordon had thought that his death might cheat the hangman.

  ‘Troopers here, Missus Rankin,’ Sarah called inside the house.

  Adele Rankin bustled onto the verandah to greet the visitors. She was dressed in similar manner to Sarah: a long dress caught tightly at the waist and plumed at the back with a bustle. Adele Rankin was in her late thirties but the desiccating effects of the Queensland sun had wrinkled her skin prematurely but she had a pleasa
nt and not unattractive face. ‘I see you have an injured man, Inspector,’ she called to Gordon as she recognised his rank. ‘Bring him around the back to the kitchen.’ Injured and wounded men, Aboriginal and European, were a regular sight at Balaclava and her reputation as a nurse was akin to that of a local doctor.

  An Aboriginal trooper prodded the manacled man forward as Gordon opened the creaking gate and led the way down the narrow footpath of hard packed earth. As he walked towards the house he was aware of Sarah's eyes following him.

  ‘The man is obviously your prisoner, Inspector,’ Missus Rankin said as she poured water into an enamel basin by the tank stand at the back of the house. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Killed a couple of men,’ Gordon replied, without elaborating on the rape of the selector's wife as it would not gain anything to upset the kindly woman.

  Calder leered at Sarah who had joined them. ‘Get your eyes off her, you bastard,’ Gordon growled.

  ‘You planning on getting some of the darkie later, Inspector James,’ Calder retorted crudely.

  Gordon was sorely tempted to smash the man in the face with his fist but refrained. He did not want to risk injuring the man any further. Better he lived longer to reflect on his fate at the end of a rope.

  Adele Rankin glared at Calder.

  ‘Sorry, Missus,’ he said with the flash of an apologetic grin.

  ‘Sarah, fetch some clean rags from the house and bring me the medical chest,’ Adele ordered as she peeled away the dirty bandage from the injured man's head to examine the wound. Very carefully she probed the hair matted with blood. ‘Skull seems to be intact, not fractured.’ Calder winced and swore as her probing fingers caused a fresh flow of blood. ‘I'll stitch the wound. And that should keep him alive for you.’

  ‘That's all he needs?’ Gordon asked, somewhat surprised. ‘Just stitching up.’

  ‘That's all I can do,’ she replied as she waited for Sarah to return with her medical chest. ‘By the way, Inspector, you haven't introduced yourself,’ she added with a frankness gained from working most of her life around men.