by Adair, Robin
He heard a sound and turned. From behind the closing door stepped Norah Robinson, wearing only a shift. Shutting off the corridor had lessened the light even more.
“All cats may be gray in the dark, but I’m no cat.” She opened a curtain slightly and now there was enough light for Dunne to see her draw the shift over her shoulders and drop it to the floor. She stood still for a moment, almost a ghostly figure in the gloom, but a phantom with very real, high breasts and long legs. Legs that ended in a triangle of dark pelt that looked, he always thought, like a map of Van Diemen’s Land.
“Will you love me, Nicodemus?” she asked softly, seizing his hands. “Don’t think ill of me. I’m no easy bunter. I haven’t had a man for—God! What would it be? A year? More? If you’re worried, my husband doesn’t share my bed. Not even my room.”
“Can’t he—doesn’t he—claim his rights?”
“Ach! It’s my money, dear. He does what he’s told. I never loved him and he never loved me. Once, maybe. Besides, I have a long knife handy here always. He knows I’d fillet him.”
He licked his suddenly dry lips. “I have nothing with me, ma’am—no protection.”
“I’m clean,” she said coldly. “And for God’s sake, stop calling me ‘ma’am’!”
“I’m sure you are,” said Dunne. “And I’m not poxed. But I always hope to use armor d’amour. And you must not risk becoming with child.”
“You’re the perfect gentleman, Nick …” She drew him over to the bed and from a side table took a box. “If you’re happier, here.” She opened it. “Voilà—lettres françaises, sheaths, an upright knight’s armor, call them what you will. I sell a lot to hurried and worried men in the taproom. That’s all I sell ’em, mind you!”
She helped the patterer shrug off his shirt and kick off his trousers and undergarment. She lay back as he rolled on a silk sheath and secured the ribbon ties. She held out her arms.
DUNNE MUST HAVE dozed. He was woken by being shaken furiously. He looked up at the set face of Mrs. Robinson.
“You bastard!” she hissed. “You talked in your sleep, just as you did when we loved. Who in the hell is Rachel? Some slut who won’t give you what you want? Or did she give it to someone else?”
He had already peeled off the silken layer, but that didn’t stop him. The bitch! He slapped Mrs. Robinson hard and rolled over and into her.
Even in the half-light he caught the sudden look of surprise on her face and in her widened eyes. “Where is your guardian? You have no armor, no protection!” She arched her hips desperately, trying to buck him off. But he held down her wrists and was too strong.
“Damn protection!” he said savagely through gritted teeth. “Damn Rachel!”
Mrs. Robinson melted. And, for the first time, he said her name: “Norah!”
NICODEMUS DUNNE LEFT Norah Robinson sleeping and escaped quietly through the back door.
He returned to the Bacchanal later. The bar was filled and the hostess was busy.
“I’m sorry, Norah,” he said when she had a quiet moment.
“Don’t be, love,” she said. “I’m not.”
“You’ll be all right?”
“’Course I will. I flushed you out …”—Dunne looked around quickly—“And, anyway, I didn’t get around to telling you, but I’m unfruitful—as barren as Pinchgut.” She smiled sadly. “I don’t suppose I can altogether blame my man for playing from home.” She laughed. “Ah, well. Will you be having another? Drink, that is!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The unapparent connection is more powerful than the apparent one.
—Heraclitus (c. 500 BC; translator unknown)
NORAH ROBINSON COULD LAUGH, MUSED THE PATTERER, AS HE nursed the drink she had offered him. And no bad thing. Better that than to leave her crying. He drained his glass, waved because she was busy again and walked out into the sunny street. There was still plenty of life left in the day.
He knew he would go back to Norah, but he still wanted the untouchable Miss Dormin. He tried to dismiss three vastly different feelings tugging in his brain—selfish pride, remorse, self-pity.
He decided to blot out his personal tangles by devoting himself to the murders and soon found that he seemed to be making more progress in a matter of hours than he had in the previous few days. His earlier scattered thoughts were coming together and seemed finally to be making sense.
He reexamined every suspicion or ambiguity, no matter how slight. He studied the lists in his black book. And he trawled through the names of others who raised questions in his mind—notably the governor, whose past still puzzled him. And he had the germ of an idea about the agitating lawyer William Charles Wentworth, whose temper was always cocked on a hair-trigger. Could blackmail perhaps be a motive?
Motive, opportunity and ability. Those were the prime detection yardsticks that had been drummed into Bow Street Runners since the days of the great policeman George Ruthven. So, who could have slashed, shot and poisoned physically powerful men—and, probably by the same hand, one woman, Madame Greene? And why?
To avenge Sudds seemed to be the logical conclusion, but Dunne was sure there was another motive, still tied to the 57th, yet to be revealed.
He knew, of course, that there was usually no science involved in solving a murder. Most killers were caught only if they were seen in the act or if they confessed due to remorse, betrayal or some undeniable physical clue. The smoking gun in the hand would fit the bill admirably.
The patterer also admitted to himself that if the killings were the random work of a cool and lucky lunatic, the cause was near hopeless. But if there were a pattern, he believed that finding the slayer of even one victim would unlock the secrets of the other cases. So, his only chance was to pursue any and all of the few slender leads his observations and instincts had provided.
He turned to the first name in the book: F. N. Rossi. Well, he had arranged to see the captain that evening; any questions would have to wait until then. In the meantime, there were other fish he could fry. With luck he might run across Miss Dormin at The Gleaner, although he believed she was spending more time at the dress shop since its mistress had been severely hampered by a fall.
He sought out Dr. Peter Cunningham and asked him outright: had his cryptic warning all those days ago to avoid the Rum Hospital implicated Dr. Thomas Owens? Dr. Cunningham’s reply was oblique and unhelpful. He repeated his advice but still refused to elaborate, calling on his professional oath to confidentiality about his patients. But, wondered Dunne, by not denying outright that he was referring to Owens was the naval surgeon implicitly pointing to his colleague? Or was that reading too much into it?
Cunningham would add only one new idea on the subject: “Consider cinnabar,” he said. “And its implications.” At Dunne’s incomprehension, he repeated the word and spelled it. Then, as once before, he nodded, turned on his heels and left his companion, who stored away their conversation then shrugged and moved on to his next line of inquiry.
The patterer and Captain Rossi had been interested in knowing the source of the arsenic ever since it had felled The Ox. And now they must almost certainly add Madame Greene to that equation. It was a common enough purchase. Dunne believed that artists even used it in their colors. And there was no knowing how long ago these recently lethal doses had been obtained. Perhaps years earlier.
The patterer suspected that the poison had come from an apothecary’s shop … unless, and that was an interesting idea, it came from another possible source: the hospital.
It seemed that Captain Rossi’s constables had not turned up the origin of the poison, or else he would have heard. Or would he? How hard had they tried with such a boring, repetitive task? Besides, these men were not keen Runners. Most had themselves been convicts and were not known for their vigorous pursuit of offenders.
Dunne weighed up the problem. If a constable had been directed to leave the police office in search of a suitable apothecary, how far might he have gone
before losing interest or gaining a public house? The patterer decided the answer might well be, not far.
He sighed; there was no alternative. He should canvass himself, from the far end of the town then backtrack. He would have to visit perhaps scores of druggists and chemists in shops and on the street, although he doubted if the handful of itinerant nostrum-hawkers dealt in arsenic.
At only the fifth call, he was lucky. At the first four shops, the attendants had sold no arsenic in the days leading up to The Ox’s death. That information did not preclude earlier sales, but at least it cleared the air slightly.
But now he had a lead of sorts. Yes, said the shopkeeper, he had made such a sale on the date in question. He remembered thinking at the time that he expected the customer to buy not arsenic, but oil of cloves for toothache.
The patterer was intrigued. “Why?”
“Because his voice was muffled and he wore a scarf wrapped tightly across his face. But, no, he only wanted arsenic, he said, for rats.” The customer wore a severe black suit and had a wide black hat pulled low over his eyes, the druggist added.
“Did you know this man?” Dunne asked.
“Not then—but a few days later I did.”
“What happened?”
“He came in again—and once more I thought he’d want something for his teeth. He was still wrapped up around the face. But …”—the shopkeeper looked pleased with his skill at diagnosis—“he clearly had facial boils troubling him.”
Dunne was puzzled. “How did you know that?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He bought a lancet, and when I mentioned boils he didn’t contradict me, did he? Of course, he could have had other uses for the lancet.”
“What made you think so?”
“Well, after all, he was a doctor.”
The patterer felt a tremor of excitement. “He told you that? What was his name?”
“I don’t recall, but I didn’t know him.”
“Was it Dr. Owens?”
The apothecary only shrugged. “Whoever he was, he should have known better—if he didn’t want toothache.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, because of all those lozenges.”
Dunne was baffled. “The lozenges?”
“Yes,” said the man patiently. “The ones he bought. Two bags there were of them, I think. They can rot your teeth in no time.”
The patterer thanked the man and left. Come to think of it, however, Thomas Owens was not the only man who could have been the customer. There was another who dressed in clerical black and called himself “Doctor”—Laurence Hynes Halloran.
DUNNE DID NOT bother with any more apothecaries, but he still pursued other avenues of inquiry.
Nearby, in one of Sam Terry’s buildings, in the rooms of the Australian Subscription Library, of which he was a member, he consulted a general dictionary and found an entry that steered him to a medical tome. The information contained therein made him raise his eyebrows.
The importance of parrots, which had flown in and out of his mind since the day of the fight at Jack-the-Miller’s Point, had also gradually crystallized.
He made a visit to the parish offices of St. James Church, where he asked (as a representative of The Australian, not quite a lie) permission to consult the records of births, deaths and marriages. It took a while, but one entry yielded satisfaction.
A visit to The Gazette, which was regarded as the journal of record, and his evolving theory seemed confirmed.
AFTER ALL THIS activity and progress, Dunne was thirsty, but that was not the only reason he went into the Labor in Vain. It was here that the first soldier had been killed, but he knew this fact wouldn’t put off that military man’s more fortunate comrades in arms.
So, reasoned the patterer, what better place to pick up a soldier? No fresh-faced recruit would do. His quarry had to be a grizzled veteran who had been with the regiment fifteen or so years. For the price of a drink or two he might explain what both Alexander Harris and Captain Crotty had said casually.
And, indeed, the hunch paid off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I met murder on the way …
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “The Mask of Anarchy” (1819)
ON THE WAY TO CALL ON CAPTAIN ROSSI, THE PATTERER MADE A detour to The Gleaner. He wanted to see Dr. Halloran—who would perhaps have toothache—and, of course, he might find Miss Dormin there.
Neither seemed to be in, but, as he turned to leave, a man emerged from the composing room and called him back to the counter. It was his informant from the wayzgoose. Dunne recalled the man’s name: Muller.
The compositor looked around rather furtively. “You know, something else about that matter has come to me,” he said.
Dunne again noticed his German accent, which was now rendered more pronounced by some tension in the speaker.
“Well.” The man paused. “You recall showing me that galley proof? If you can wait about fifteen or twenty minutes, I’ll be finished and I can talk to you.” He held up one hand, and rubbed together his thumb and two fingers. “Might there be a …” He hesitated over the next word. “Belohnung?” His look was sly.
The patterer guessed at the meaning from the gesture, but he still waited until the man translated.
“A reward?”
Dunne frowned. “Unfortunately, I can’t wait now. Later, perhaps?”
“Come back in the morning.” The compositor shrugged. “Early, about seven-thirty. I’ll tell you then.”
Outside, fortune smiled on Dunne as his newfound friend, Billy Blue, sidled up with a strange story of an unusual group he had ferried during the night of the blacksmith’s deadly flogging. This story spurred Dunne to make a quick side trip to see Bungaree …
“ARE YOU CALLING me a liar, sir?” hissed Captain Rossi.
It wasn’t a very auspicious start, decided the patterer. “Not at all,” he soothed. “The fault was all mine that day at the Lumber Yard. You answered me truthfully. I simply asked you the wrong question—about the governor’s past involving the dead blacksmith.”
“Ah,” said Rossi. “And what makes you still think he has an old secret?” He looked slightly mollified, but his eyes were wary.
“The fact,” said Dunne, “that I know a new secret. He was in a position on that night to kill the smith. Or to have him killed.”
“Rubbish!”
“Well, it’s also incontestable that he was seen to attempt to kill another man that night.”
Rossi looked at him, aghast. “You’re serious!”
“Yes. I am. Deadly serious, you might say.”
Rossi sat in silence, staring at the patterer, then finally broke it. “Why would you think that I know any secrets about His Excellency?”
“You worked with him in Mauritius, very closely. And now you are a senior lieutenant here. And you have a known ability to sniff out people’s dirty linen. Didn’t you have a secret commission from the king, after his succession to the throne, to go to Italy and unearth evidence for a royal divorce? Were you not to be a witness, code named ‘Majorca,’ against Caroline?”
“Ah, bella Italia!” said the captain dreamily. “But”—he snapped back to the present—“of course, I can say nothing about such matters. Except to remark that it was an ill-starred match from the start. First cousins, y’know. Perhaps she should have taken the 50,000 pounds a year we—I mean the government, of course—offered her to go away. Do you know what he said after first seeing his future bride? Well, he said, ‘I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy.’ And later he told his sisters that she was ‘a perfect streetwalker.’ Not true. Ah, poor woman. It was she who had to escape—leaping over sofas!—from her father-in-law’s importunements.”
“You know a lot about our betters, as I thought,” said Dunne.
His companion sighed and looked at him in the eye. “More than you can imagine, lad, much more.” Then he clapped his hands briskly. “But enough of reminiscin
g. That was then, this is now. I agree that you and I now need each other more than ever. So, let us compare secrets. Mind, you must never reveal that I am their source. I will do likewise. If anyone knew what we had done, what sort of spies would we be?”
So Captain Rossi, in exchange for the recent secret Dunne had discovered, truthfully answered the question that Dunne could, and should, have asked days earlier.
THE PATTERER RETIRED that night pleased, but not completely so. So many people, it seemed, had the necessary motives, opportunities and abilities. But which one? Or ones?
AT PRECISELY SEVEN-THIRTY the next morning, Nicodemus Dunne arrived at the Gleaner office to find the front door unlocked. No one answered his hail, so he walked through into the silent composing room.
The compositor, Muller, was waiting for him, as promised. But he offered no greeting. He couldn’t. He lay on the ink-stained, dirty floor, choking on his own blood, a dribble running down his chin. His eyes were closed.
“Christ!” The patterer knelt and tried to lift the unconscious man’s head and shoulders, ignoring the blood that soaked his own hands and forearm. He saw the shallow rise and fall of Muller’s chest as his heart pumped blood into an ever-widening crimson bloom on his white shirtfront. The damage centered on a black-edged hole. Muller had been lung-shot.
Dunne’s knee stubbed on a hard object. He felt around until he found the obstruction. It was a pistol. He put it close to his face; it still reeked of burned powder. He pushed it to one side.
Muller’s face was pale and waxy, but suddenly his eyes fluttered open. He weakly grasped one of the patterer’s hands and pulled him closer, smearing more blood on him.
“Don’t try to talk. I’ll get help.”