Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1)

by Sandra Dengler

  He smirked. “Bankers I can’t manipulate. Don’t let the place burn down while I’m gone.” He twisted Gypsy’s head around and cantered away.

  He did not get back for supper, though she kept it waiting for him until past eleven. He did not return at all that night. When he finally did ride in, grim and weary, the sun was ready to set on the next day.

  Samantha put her pen down, her letter to Mum only half finished. She watched him through the flynet on the back door as he pulled Gypsy’s bridle and let her find her own way up to Fat Dog and her manger. He washed his face off perfunctorily at the ewer and basin on the back porch, shoved through the kitchen door, and flopped into the chair by the table.

  “What do you have from dinner? Sandwich, maybe?”

  She tied on her apron. “Fish chowder. Linnet’s friends brought us some very nice rock cod. And perhaps a bit of lamb.”

  He nodded, not a bit enthusiastic about rock cod chowder.

  She ladled a serving of the chowder into a smaller pot so that it might heat more quickly. “Ye don’t appear to have fared well with yer recalcitrant bankers.”

  He laughed wryly. “Recalcitrant. Love it. I’m one step ahead of ruin, but at least I’m still that step ahead.” The forced cheer melted into gloom. “Ever use a telephone?”

  “Aye. They have some in Cork. Hard to hear from—dim and scratchy—but ’tis a grand improvement over running ’cross town.”

  “They have ’em in Sydney, too. Also in Melbourne, and their telephones caught me, Sam. The bankers got together and discovered among themselves that I’ve encumbered the same land twice.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I took out a loan using land as collateral that already had a mortgage outstanding on it. Now they want their money. All of it. Or else proof that if I go under they’ll get what’s theirs. That there’s enough real estate for all the vultures to feed on.”

  As she sliced a slab off the leg of lamb, Samantha added two and two and came up with Butts. “Ye’re going to foreclose on the tea lands, hoping to impress the bankers with your real worth.”

  “Tried that approach.” He sighed and rubbed his face. “I thought my clear title to that, plus Sugarlea, would convince them they shouldn’t call in their loans. No luck. So I managed to sell the tea land to a starry-eyed emigrant from Liverpool who hopes to make his fortune here in the brave new land. Gave the bankers a hefty sum; let ’em talk about that on their telephone. Now I wait to see if that’ll hold ’em.”

  She turned and stared at him. The anger boiled up in her. How could he do that to … ? Hold your blabbing tongue. You’re a servant and no more.

  “When will ye know their mind?”

  “You ever hear of the sword of Damocles?”

  “Aye.” She set the lamb before him and dished out the soup. “I’ll steep ye a fresh pot of black pekoe. This old tea be strong enough to roll up the sides of yer tongue.”

  “Gardell still up on the hill?”

  “I presume so. Fat Dog’s nephews look in on him now and again, and Burriwi keeps an eye out. Meself has heard nae new.”

  “Like a bloody carrion bird he sits there. A vulture. Watching me, waiting for the carcass to cool off.”

  “Or mayhap simply scratching about in search of gold and dinnae know or care ye exist.”

  “He knows. And believe me, he cares.” Mr. Sloan poked absently at his soup with his spoon, but his interest picked up when he tasted it. Rock cod makes an exceptional chowder.

  Samantha sat down at the table, the better to meet him eye to eye. “Mr. Gardell distresses ye almost more than yer bankers. Why?”

  “None of a housemaid’s business.”

  “True enough, sir.” She stood up in part because she knew when she wasn’t wanted and in part because someone was knocking at the front door.

  Meg was just ushering Constable Thurlow inside as Samantha got there.

  Thurlow twisted his cap nervously about in his hands. “So Cole’s not returned from business yet.”

  “Arrived moments ago, sir. Margaret may not have heard him come in.” Samantha turned back toward the kitchen. She would have preferred the man wait in the foyer until summoned, but he followed on her heels. She got to the kitchen three steps ahead of him. “Constable Thurlow, sir, to see you.”

  Mr. Sloan stood up slowly. Neither man offered a hand. “Percy. G’day.”

  “Cole, I hate to do this, believe me. Not my cup of tea atall. The papers came to me from Brisbane in the afternoon post, to be served in person.” With that preamble completed, he groped a moment in the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a very official-looking envelope. Samantha could not see it clearly, but she glimpsed the return address in part.

  Mr. Sloan received it, opened it, studied its contents.

  The constable hastened on. “I need a signature here, a witness that I did in fact deliver it to you. Sorry; bit of paper work, y’ know, but must be done.”

  Mr. Sloan pushed past without hearing him, it appeared, and roared off down the hall.

  “The signature? Cole?” Mr. Thurlow turned to pursue him, but Samantha grabbed his arm.

  “May I see the paper, please, sir?”

  “Well, I don’t see why you should.” He shrugged. “Or shouldn’t.” He let her take it from his hand.

  She picked up her own pen and scrawled Mr. Sloan’s signature across the line provided for it. “There ye be, sir.”

  He stared. He sputtered. “Miss, this isn’t right. It—”

  “Did ye deliver the papers as ye were instructed?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Into his hands as requested.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So ye did indeed do it, he’s got his bad news, and ye’ve the proof right there that the deed be done. Now do ye suppose it matters to the judge and the court in Brisbane whether the name they see be penned by one hand or another?”

  “Well, I …”

  Samantha motioned to Meg over in the doorway. “The black pekoe is ready. Pour this gentleman a spot of tea, give him a bit of fish chowder; ’tis an excellent chowder; and see him on his way, aye?” She curtseyed to Mr. Thurlow. “G’day to ye, sir, and godspeed.” She left him standing there blinking.

  She ran the length of the ell and down the far hall. She was overstepping her bounds as a housemaid again, even more severely this time, but she didn’t care.

  She had seen his face.

  She pushed open the office door gently. She stepped inside, closed it and leaned against it. “Ye need someone to yell at and throw things at, and a housemaid’s as good as anybody for the job.”

  He lay draped in his chair, arms and legs askew. He looked at her the longest time with sadness from the very depths of his soul brimming up and over in his eyes. He tensed only enough to lean forward and shove the papers, those infamous papers on his desk, an inch closer her. “Read them. They pertain to you, in part. What’s a housemaid’s opinion of this?”

  “Ye be mocking me, sir, and welcome.” She picked them up and perched herself on the edge of the brocaded wingback. Wading through the florid legalese took a while. One was a desist order enjoining him from using servants obtained by indenture. Another was a summons to appear in the state court in Brisbane. There he was to show cause why he should not be arraigned for violating state, federal and Imperial laws regarding the use of imported labor.

  She looked into the sad, sad eyes.

  He waved a weary hand. “You’re free, Sam. You and Meg and Linnet. Amena, wherever she is.”

  “I can’t believe an indenture be all that illegal.”

  “You didn’t read the page with all the small print. It’s the terms they object to, and a few other things.”

  “The labor laws, as I understand it, were designed to keep out colored labor more than prevent slavery. We Irish girls may nae be high society, but we be nae pagans, either.”

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  “I shall.”

 
He looked at her with those deep, haunted eyes. “Straws and camels’ backs.” He sat there, numb. And sat there. “It’s gone.” So was any whisper of hope in his voice.

  What should she say? She had no need anymore to worry about stepping out of bounds. The bounds had been removed by a court action in Brisbane.

  She stood up. “Then ’tis gone. Ye did yer best. Ye played the game according to the hand ye were dealt. Now it’s gone. Ye can pick up the pieces or ye can jump out the window.”

  He had been so loose a moment ago. Instantly every muscle in him tightened. “Who told you?!” He relaxed again. “Gardell.”

  “Nae the fossicker. A pleasant young man, a stranger seeking to work ‘defenestration’ into his conversation.”

  “He would’ve been seventy-five years old next month, my father.”

  She sat down again and waited.

  He stared past her at infinity awhile. Finally he returned. “Shouldn’t you be packing or something?”

  “Do ye wish I should?”

  “Not my choice. Judge Winteringham there, he says to.”

  “And were it yer choice?”

  His voice dropped nearly to a murmur, devoid of strength or resource. “Don’t go, Sam.”

  A very distant, very strange splintering thunk—feet coming down the hall at a lumbering run—Samantha stared at her ex-master, too surprised to move. He stiffened in his chair, but that’s all he had time to do.

  The door flew open. Wild-eyed, John Butts filled the black doorway. “You!” He screamed at Mr. Sloan and pointed a quavering finger. “You betrayed me!”

  Mr. Sloan sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap, totally composed. “Good evening, John.”

  Samantha stood up and stepped quickly aside. “Yer chair, sir. I’ll be going now.” She looked at Mr. Sloan. “Tea and that coffee cake, aye?”

  “That would be g—”

  “No! You don’t leave!” The pointing finger swung from Mr. Sloan to Samantha. The man fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a pistol, a dark revolver with a barrel perhaps three or four inches long.

  She should be terrified now. Paralyzed. Transfixed. Why was she so calm? This man did not bring a gun simply to brandish it in the air and make everyone uncomfortable. He was facing the wretch who had just ruined him and destroyed all his dreams. The gun was here for Cole Sloan. If she could move in close enough to seize his arm …

  She stepped forward. “Mr. Butts, sir, I be but a serving girl, sir, but I am a lady, sir, and ye’ll not wave that g—”

  His free arm swung at her backhanded. She saw it coming, but she could not move in time. Even as it caught her in the neck and sent her wheeling, she could see Mr. Sloan come rising out of his chair in one great motion. She slammed against the wooden file cabinet and clung there as the room kept spinning.

  The constable loomed in the doorway now, screaming orders, a dribble of fish chowder on his chin. The gun blasted, louder than any shout. Mr. Thurlow ceased his yelling and stood there with a look of most wondrous surprise on his face. Slowly, casually, his knees buckled.

  With a howl Sloan came diving over his desk. He slammed into Butts, dragging him down in a deadly wrestling match. They rolled back and forth, struggling, kicking, and flailing. Cole Sloan was the younger, the stronger, the more fit. But Mr. Butts was powered by a pure hatred, a manic fury for which youth and strength were no match.

  Just where Butts landed his lucky blow Samantha didn’t know, but suddenly the madman was free and leaping to his feet. He screamed a frantic obscenity at Mr. Sloan; he was aiming the gun; Samantha flung herself forward. She was no fighter. She had nothing going for her but momentum. She tucked her head and legs and cannon-balled into the back of Mr. Butts’ knees.

  His weight came down on her as she buried her head in her arms. Then Mr. Sloan’s legs thumped across her back. The gun went off; it fired again. She wriggled free barely in time to see Mr. Sloan lurching to his feet.

  He had won. The gun was in his hand now. It was over. And yet it was not. In a flashing moment of time she knew what he was going to do, and she knew she was powerless to stop him. She screamed out “No!” but she was too late. The gun roared. Again. Again. It clicked. Mr. Butts’s foot still lay in her lap. It jerked rapid-fire for several seconds and went limp.

  Now it was over.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Theme of Time

  Samantha sat in the wingback chair with her elbows parked on its arms and watched her fingers tremble in her lap. She didn’t try to still them. Less than two hours ago her whole body had been shaking like that. Only the fingers? Why, that was nothing.

  Meg flew about, remarkably in charge. Energy and organization had replaced her ho-hum attitude, and the transformation amazed Samantha. Part of the reason was surely Luke Vinson. He was here pretty much against Mr. Sloan’s will, but Mr. Sloan wasn’t actually kicking him out. Yet. In truth, the minister was a big help. He may not have been trained in medicine, but he seemed to know what to do until the doctor came. He had Constable Thurlow resting comfortably in Mr. Sloan’s bed across the hall.

  The Port Douglas constable was here now also, taking notes and scribbling elaborate diagrams in a tattered copy book. The man was a contradiction, no matter how you looked at him. He sported a manly, very bushy handlebar moustache, no doubt left over from the rage ten years ago. And yet the delicate pince-nez perched just above that moustache suggested a meek counting-house clerk. On the broad chest a silk shirt with a ruffle down the front; massive ham hands without a callous on them; a powerful stride, yet a delicate touch and small, firm handwriting—the body of a stevedore housed the mind of a college professor.

  His assistant, a skinny little gentleman in a tunic a bit too large for him, scurried about measuring the distances from place to place and thing to thing. He would quote figures as his superior wrote frantically and demanded still more numbers.

  Doobie and Fat Dog were in and out. Linnet floated on the periphery. And in the middle of the floor, like the centerpiece on a table of horrors, lay John Butts.

  The pool of blood in which his whole upper body lay soaking was turning darker. His skin was taking on a bluish, ashy color. Samantha couldn’t bear to look at him, yet she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Someone had closed his eyelids and his mouth, but the mouth kept falling back open.

  “Excuse me. Constable Fish? Do you suppose you could cover him now? Linnet has a bedsheet there—”

  “Few moments more, my dear.” The hulking official paused in his ceaseless jotting. “Criminal investigation is no longer a casual examination of surface facts. It’s a science. Here we are five years into the twentieth century. We must keep pace.”

  From the doorway Linnet announced to no one in particular, “The doctor has arrived. He’s with the constable now.”

  Constable Fish flourished his pencil. “I’ll need him in here for a death certification also.”

  Linnet curtseyed and disappeared.

  The constable studied his pages of spider-web diagrams all riddled with arrows pointing to marginal comments. “I think that will do for the moment. You may cover him, miss—Where did she go?”

  “I have it.” Mr. Sloan brought the bedsheet from the leather chair and snapped it open.

  A portly man Samantha had not seen before stepped into the room, toweling off his hands. “I want to take Thurlow down with me to Port Douglas, Sloan. Got a spring wagon or something comfortable for him?”

  “Better. I have Doobie firing up the tram. Fat Dog will see that you both get down to the mill, then ride your horse home for you. You can take the sugar train with the constable.”

  The doctor nodded. He glanced at the corpse almost as an afterthought. “He’s dead, Harry. Certified.” He left.

  Mr. Sloan smirked. “Now that’s scientific.” He draped the body. Instantly the bedsheet began wicking up blood, and Samantha knew who would ultimately clean this mess away. She shuddered.

  Constable F
ish snapped his notebook shut. “Sloan, had Butts put a bullet in your heart, I would have ruled it justifiable homicide. I know what you did to him. You’re bloody lucky Thurlow saw everything and lived to tell about it, or I’d have you in irons now, and happy to turn the key.”

  Mr. Sloan eyed him, his head high. “What are you saying, Harry?”

  “I’m saying the wrong man died tonight. And if I ever have the opportunity to lay something at your door, however trivial, I’ll do it.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

  “You insufferable—” The constable caught himself. Apparently he, like Samantha, had a tendency to overstep his bounds.

  Mr. Sloan tightened up like an overwound watch spring. He exploded with an obscenity. His pointing finger waved toward Samantha. “He hit her! He came into my own home to kill me, and he hit her!”

  Constable Fish studied Samantha curiously, as though he had never before considered her to be an actual person. He turned and marched out, his assistant tagging along at double-step.

  She felt numb, absolutely unresponsive. She heard Fat Dog and his nephews in the bedroom, preparing to carry Constable Thurlow down to the waiting sugar tram. She watched vacantly as the local mortician and his assistant gathered the ghastly remains into a basket. The centerpiece of horror went out the door.

  Luke Vinson asked what he could do for her and she assured him “nothing.” A mechanical singsong was all the voice she could muster. One by one, each went his own way. The hubbub quieted until she could again hear the banjo clock beside the file cabinet. A few minutes longer, and its ticking was the only sound left.

  She was not, however, alone. Mr. Sloan had sunk into nearly as complete a stupor. He sprawled all jammed into one corner of his chair and stared at nothing. She should move. She should leave. She should return to her room and beg sleep to come.

  He stirred and shifted his gaze to her. “I owe you, Sam. If you hadn’t dived into it there …” More silence.

  “I feel like I felt when we learned Edan was—” Words failed her. She started over. “Ellis described it, and this, uh, this matches what he said so dreadfully well. Poor Ellis. To look on this, and ’twas Edan. And not yet fourteen years old he was.”