by Peter Watt
‘Yes, your father,’ she continued. ‘But your mother realised that she loved her cousin Granville even more. To marry him, she knew she could not have you in her life. So when you were born she had you sent away. She wanted to send you to an evil place where babies are killed. But I secretly issued orders to your mother’s nanny to have you taken to your father’s family.’
The expression of anguish on Patrick’s face unsettled Enid. It was like some terrible force boiling up. At eleven years of age he was verging on manhood and such a force unleashed was almost too terrible to contemplate. Or was it? Was not the boy a Macintosh as much as a Duffy? Molly O’Rourke was long gone, Enid consoled herself, and was not in a position to contradict her untruthful version of events. The sooner they left New South Wales for England the better. ‘I am sorry you had to learn at such a tender age,’ Enid continued sympathetically, ‘about how your mother felt about you when you were born. She was but a young and confused girl, madly in love with her cousin.’
‘I hate her,’ Patrick growled. His eyes burned with a fire that Enid had seen in her own daughter. It was the inherent Macintosh ruthlessness. ‘I will go to her and tell her so to her face.’
‘I think if you did,’ Enid moved quickly, ‘she would tell you that she had not really wanted to dispose of you. That you were always in her thoughts. She would even probably say that she still loves you. No . . . it would only hurt you even more to see your mother Patrick. Your uncle Daniel can tell you how years ago I sought you out when your mother did not care enough to do so. I think my actions speak stronger than any words she may utter.’
Patrick turned to his grandmother and stared into her face. He was too young to detect duplicity. The eyes that he looked into spoke only of concern for him. There was a plea for trust and he looked away.
‘Would you like to stay with me until we sail?’ Enid asked gently. ‘I could have my carriage go to your uncle’s hotel and my driver tell him that you are safe. He could arrange to pick up anything that you may require.’
Patrick turned to her. ‘I would rather go home,’ he said. ‘They will be worried about me. I suppose I will be in trouble,’ he sighed, and a slight twinkle came to his eyes as he added, ‘but I don’t think I will be in great trouble.’
Enid smiled. He had the intelligence to understand the nature of those who loved him, obviously a trait he had inherited from his father, a natural charm.
She suddenly remembered that the boy’s father was still alive. It made her feel uneasy, with good reason. Should Michael Duffy ever learn that he had a son . . . She felt an involuntary shudder. That must never happen. The journey to England could not come fast enough for her. Patrick must be removed from Australia to sever any chance of that occurring. ‘I will have my carriage return you to your uncle’s place,’ she said. ‘But first, you must have something to eat with me, and we will talk about how exciting your life will be in England. You will have a rare opportunity to see all the great places of London. We will visit museums; I know you like museums. And you will attend one of the best schools in the empire.’
Patrick appeared to be listening to his grandmother’s cheerful monologue. But he was not listening to her actual words. He was thinking about his mother. He hated her more than any person on earth and one day he would punish her for what he perceived as the greatest betrayal possible. But Lady Enid cared. And somehow she would be his means of punishing his mother in the future.
Enid watched from the window of the library as her carriage departed with Patrick. Her intuition told her that the boy was now hers. They were bound in a duplicitous betrayal. He, for a mother he believed had desired to dispose of him. And she, for the fact that her daughter had sided with the man who had conspired to have her beloved David murdered.
She turned away from the window and, staring at the spears and boomerangs mounted on the library wall, felt a touch of dread for all that had occurred in the library with the boy. She knew that her lies would compound in the years ahead. But her dread was also prompted by the irrational thought that somehow she and the Duffys were victims of an Aboriginal curse.
Dorothy was finally alone with her aunt Penelope. Penelope had planned it to be so, and towards that end had suggested to Fiona that the girls be brought over to her house by their nanny while she went on a shopping trip into Sydney. Later she could join them for afternoon tea.
Fiona had liked the idea. She always felt a strange kind of freedom when Granville was away on one of his many trips out of Sydney. And when she experienced that freedom inevitably she was in the mood to go shopping. The suggestion also meant a pleasant interlude for afternoon tea at Penelope’s house at the end of her shopping spree.
Dorothy stood before her aunt and sensed by the grave expression on Penelope’s face that she wanted to talk to her about something grown-up. ‘Sit down on the couch beside me,’ Penelope said, gently indicating the big sofa in her drawing room. ‘You and I can have a little talk about some things.’
‘Do you want to talk to Helen too?’ Dorothy asked as she sat down beside her aunt.
‘No darling,’ Penelope said, and impulsively reached out to stroke her niece’s long hair. ‘Your sister can join us after we have talked together.’
Dorothy gazed up at her aunt with big grave eyes and wished that her younger sister was with her. But Penelope had organised for Helen to help the cook prepare scones for the afternoon tea. Prompted by her terrible nagging suspicion she had then lured Dorothy into the drawing room for a talk. Ever since she had first noticed the subtle changes in her favourite niece, Penelope had desperately tried to convince herself that it was not happening all over again. Dorothy was so like herself at the same age.
Dorothy sat patiently with her hands in her lap waiting for her aunt to speak. ‘Darling,’ Penelope said gently, ‘does Papa do things with you that frighten you?’
The sudden, stricken expression that came over Dorothy’s face caused Penelope to feel as if she had been stabbed in the stomach with a hot knife. ‘No Aunt Penny,’ Dorothy replied in a tight, frightened voice, ‘Papa doesn’t play . . . ’ she hesitated, and fell into a frightened silence. She had almost told someone what Papa had said she must not.
‘Doesn’t play what?’ Penelope asked quietly. ‘Doesn’t play games with you that frighten you very much?’ The little girl stared wide-eyed at her aunt. Her bottom lip trembled, forewarning a flood of tears to come. Penelope felt the hot knife in her stomach twist and turn to a smouldering rage. So, her brother had found another victim for his nefarious evil.
‘I cannot tell you any more Aunt Penny,’ Dorothy said in a tiny voice. She stared down at her hands folded in her lap. ‘Papa said I would be punished if I told anyone about . . . ’ The tears rolled in great wet droplets down her face and the sobbing came in great waves racking her little body. ‘ . . . He said he would send me away if I told anyone. And I would never see Helen or Mama ever again.’
Penelope drew her niece to her and held her against her breast. ‘Hush darling,’ she crooned as Dorothy sobbed uncontrollably. ‘Aunt Penny won’t tell anyone about what Papa does. Aunt Penny knows your pain and I promise you that your papa will not play his games with you ever again.’
Dorothy felt the soothing words wrap around her like a protective cloak. She could not have told anyone else in the whole wide world about Papa’s secret – except Aunt Penny. Not even Mama.
But Aunt Penny was kind and gentle. She was different.
For a long time Penelope held her niece. And as she held her, Penelope felt her rage boil to a point where even the hardest steel would melt and turn to vapour. He would pay, she thought, with a quiet and savage fury. Not only for what he had done to his own daughter, but for the continuing pain she still felt for her own lost childhood. Taking Fiona from her brother was not enough. There had to be more she could do to punish his insidious evil. A lot more – before he died and went to hell.
When Dorothy had cried until she could cry no more
Penelope took her to her room and laid her down on her bed. She sat stroking her hair gently until the little girl fell asleep. Satisfied that Dorothy was resting, Penelope rose from the bed to go down to the kitchen. She had the conviction that there was one other who must know of her brother’s evil – one whose silence had contributed to the terrible anguish in the life of the little girl.
Penelope found the cook, Helen and Miss Pitcher kneading the dough for the scones. They were sitting at the kitchen table laughing and young Helen had flour streaks on her face.
‘Miss Pitcher,’ Penelope said, ‘may I have a word with you? In private?’
Gertrude Pitcher glanced up at Penelope and frowned. ‘Certainly ma’am,’ she replied apprehensively and rose to follow Penelope to the drawing room.
Penelope closed the door behind them and turned to face the stern nanny. Gertrude immediately felt her unexplainable apprehension turn to fear as she noticed the strangely dark expression on the Baroness’s face.
‘There is a grave matter I wish to speak to you about,’ Penelope said, with the hint of a cold fire in her blue eyes. ‘Concerning my niece Dorothy.’
‘I’m sure I do not know what you mean,’ the nanny replied coldly, attempting to disguise her own rising fear. Had the damned girl talked, despite her father’s threats?
‘Dorothy has told me everything, including that you know what has been happening,’ Penelope bluffed. She watched carefully for the flicker of guilt in the other woman’s eyes. Miss Pitcher caught her breath and a trapped look flashed in her eyes. Penelope knew she was right. The woman had known of her brother’s evil and yet had done nothing to stop it. She could guess just what means her brother had used to coerce the nanny into his conspiracy. ‘How much did he pay you Miss Pitcher?’ she asked, without giving the woman time to gather her thoughts. ‘I said how much?’
‘It wasn’t the money,’ Miss Pitcher whispered, as she stared down at the parquet floor.
‘Threats then,’ Penelope proposed harshly. ‘Did my brother threaten violence against you?’ Miss Pitcher nodded. She opened her mouth as if to say something but no words came. Instead, she stood and stared bleakly at the floor. Penelope realised that she would achieve more by adopting a sympathetic attitude. ‘Sit down Miss Pitcher,’ Penelope said gently. Gertrude reacted with a puzzled expression as she took a seat on one of the imported French chairs. ‘I am not going to tell anyone of your part in my brother’s evil,’ Penelope continued. ‘And for my silence on the matter you will do exactly as I tell you.’
‘I fear that Mister White will find out that I have talked to you ma’am,’ Miss Pitcher said, trembling. ‘He is a dreadful man I greatly fear.’
‘He is,’ Penelope agreed. ‘But you have more reason to fear me if you do not do what I command, Miss Pitcher. Believe me when I say that,’ she added, fixing the frightened woman with her icy blue eyes.
‘What is it that you require of me?’ the nanny asked wearily. She was resigned to dealing with the Baroness who she sensed may indeed be more dangerous and devious than her depraved brother. The stern nanny had little respect for men, and was almost glad that she would no longer have to cooperate in the depraved activities of her employer. She had tried to pretend that nothing was happening. But the reality of the traumatised little girl after her visits to the library had worn her down. She knew herself that she would not be able to stay much longer under the Whites’ roof.
‘You will provide me with a full written account of all you know,’ Penelope said. ‘That account will be held by me. Also, you will give notice to Missus White without notifying her why, other than that you have better prospects elsewhere. She is not to know what her husband has been doing to her daughter. Do you understand what I am saying so far?’
Miss Pitcher nodded her head slightly. ‘Good!’ Penelope said. ‘When you have done all I have requested you will go to a place for employment where I will be able to contact you should I need your corroboration on the account of my brother’s evil activities. Oh, do not look startled Miss Pitcher. You will be safe. My brother will never know of your whereabouts. It just happens that I know a family in need of a nanny. I suspect that other than this lapse in your duties as regards the well-being of my nieces, you have provided an excellent service to them.’
Penelope could see tears welling in the stern woman’s eyes. As she ducked her head and sniffed loudly, Penelope felt just a touch of pity for the woman’s obvious distress. She knew that Granville would have coerced her with a combination of greed and fear.
‘Baroness von Fellmann, I . . . ’ Miss Pitcher was lost for words of gratitude for her apparently lenient treatment, considering the gravity of what had occurred whilst Dorothy had been in her care.
Disgusted, Penelope turned her back on the woman and walked to a window with a view of the lawns. It was still raining outside. Afternoon tea would be taken in this very same room with Fiona. It was strange how one place could suffer within its walls so many diverse emotions, Penelope thought, as she gazed out at the grey sleeting rain. When Fiona arrived she must feign cheerfulness. She did not want to alert her cousin to anything of what had transpired during the day.
She turned from the window to see the nanny standing forlornly. ‘You may leave me now Miss Pitcher,’ Penelope said tersely. ‘I will expect your account to be clearly written and in my hand before you leave with Missus White this evening. You can go to my husband’s library to carry out your task. You will find pen and paper on his desk. That is all.’
Miss Pitcher mumbled her gratitude and left the room with her back bowed under the weight of her conscience. Penelope remained staring out at the rain. She was trembling. It was easy to make a threat, she realised grimly. But it was another thing to carry it out.
THIRTY-FOUR
Pastor Otto Werner and his wife Caroline were lost in the wilderness. It was to them as desolate as any place Moses had crossed in the great exodus from Egypt. Otto Werner was a man in his late thirties. Stolid, with a strong face graced by a bushy black beard to his chest, he wore a black suit and his once-white shirt was stained by sweat to a dirty red colour. His wife was a contrast to her husband: fair and dainty. They were an odd couple, but shared a burning zeal to bring God’s word not only to the impressive numbers of German settlers and miners in North Queensland, but also to the Children of Ham.
Off the ship from Hamburg they had purchased a horse and sulky, packed supplies and a crate of Bibles in both English and German, and set out from Cooktown to visit a devout German Lutheran grazier who they had been informed was considering setting aside land for a mission station.
But, being Europeans, they had presumed in their ignorance that the vast, semi-arid continent had landmarks which would show them the way. Furthermore, the sketchy map they had purchased in Cooktown did not indicate distances between the vaguely marked creeks and hills. This they discovered, as their supplies dwindled and the landmarks ran out. Soon enough they faced a flat, endless horizon and realised that they had passed the point of no return on their lonely trek south west. But despair was not an emotion Otto entertained. All adversity was merely a test from God, of the strength of his faith.
The discovery of the wounded Aboriginal who spoke a rough form of English was perceived by the Lutheran minister as a sign from God. His wife was not so sure. A request for tobacco from the wild-looking heathen were the first words he uttered in their meeting in the wilderness, a request far from Godly, in her opinion.
With his big, battered leather-bound Bible in his hand, Otto knelt beside Wallarie. ‘God of my fathers,’ he intoned in a booming voice, ‘thank You for sending us Your messenger to guide us out of the wilderness.’
Caroline glanced at her husband from the corner of her eye. She was more practical than he in the ways of life and wondered how this badly-wounded native could help them find the Schmidt farm. ‘And now Lord guide my hand so that I may heal this poor heathen’s body and save his soul from eternal damnation.’
&nbs
p; Wallarie listened to the strangely guttural words being said over him. He wondered if this man were some kind of magic man. As weak as he was Wallarie still checked for any sign of a weapon, and when he could not detect a pistol or rifle, felt a little more reassured that the strange man in black meant him no harm.
‘Wife,’ Otto commanded, ‘fetch me the medicine chest from the sulky.’ Caroline did so as the missionary examined the badly infected bullet wound. It had swelled into an ugly dark lump, hot to touch.
She returned with a small wooden box and knelt beside her husband. ‘Be careful my husband,’ she said quietly. ‘He has weapons with him.’
Otto gave the spears and war clubs beside Wallarie a scornful look. ‘He will be dead if I don’t help him,’ he replied. ‘I think the bullet is lodged in the muscle and I will have to get it out to relieve the pressure.’ He riffled through his medicine chest to produce a scalpel and a pair of forceps. A year at Heidelberg University medical school had not been entirely wasted. ‘This vill hurt my friend,’ he said in English. ‘But I vill not hurt you more than I must. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah boss,’ Wallarie croaked, and tried to grin. He knew just what the man was going to do. He had once helped Tom remove a spray of shotgun pellets from his back when a squatter had resisted their attempts to steal his horse. The evil magic of the bullets was greater the longer they were in the body. ‘You cut ’im this blackfella good.’
Otto nodded and proceeded to cut into the flesh. A steady stream of yellow-green pus burst from the lump, followed by a stream of dark blood. For Wallarie the pain was beyond even the initial impact of the Snider bullet. He tried to spring to his feet, but a powerful blow from the man of God’s fist laid him out, and for the rest of the operation Wallarie was blissfully unconscious.
Grunting and sweating, Otto probed for the bullet while his wife hovered nearby with the forceps, blanching at the sight of the open wound. Wallarie was coming around as Otto clamped the lead projectile with the forceps. He paused and steadied himself for the final tug at the bullet which was stubbornly clamped in the muscle. Wallarie came out of his unconscious state as the bullet came out of him, vaguely aware of the bearded face grinning at him. Otto held the misshapen projectile before his eyes. ‘I think he will live,’ Otto said to his wife. ‘I have read that these people have an unusually strong constitution in such matters.’