The Ink Stain

by Tom Keneally

  ‘Bertie,’ said Duchamp, ‘this is Mr Monsarrat. The man from Parramatta, you remember.’

  Bancroft stared at Monsarrat, turning his head a little from side to side as though trying to get a better view. Monsarrat had the uncomfortable feeling he was being assessed in terms of how he’d look behind a plough.

  ‘A ticket-of-leave man,’ said Bancroft.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Done quite well, haven’t you?’

  ‘I do my best, Mr Bancroft,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Well, pleasant a morning as it is, I fear you and I must seek shelter from it in my study, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Duchamp. ‘You must excuse us, Bertie.’ He turned, searching the crowd, and his eyes fixed on a slight young woman in rose silk. ‘Henrietta!’

  The woman quickly bobbed to a young soldier she had been conversing with, although his side of the discussion seemed to consist of gazing at her. She lifted her skirts and ran towards them at a most unladylike speed. ‘Yes, Eddie?’ she said indulgently, like an adult interrupted in a task by a beloved yet slightly annoying child.

  ‘Not that name here, thank you,’ Duchamp hissed, in what he clearly thought was a whisper. ‘Henrietta, this is Mrs Mulrooney. Madam, may I present my sister. She will, I am sure, have no objection to looking after you while your nephew and I discuss certain matters.’

  ‘No objection at all,’ said Henrietta, taking Mrs Mulrooney’s arm and patting her hand as she guided her into the throng. Mrs Mulrooney glanced quickly back over her shoulder to Monsarrat. He was reasonably certain that if she could speak, she would remind him again of her sacrifices.

  He looked around the garden, at the well-dressed and well-connected guests. He was not investigating a street robbery. One of the killers could be here, an intimate of Duchamp. Perhaps Duchamp didn’t know, or perhaps his insistence on meeting during a party was a test of some kind.

  Before he and Duchamp could move away, the footman announced another guest. ‘Mr Alexander Hawley,’ he called, stepping aside to admit a rotund man who shone with sweat as though he had been glazed and fired in a kiln.

  Hawley scuttled over to Duchamp. ‘Colonel, I am most delighted to be here. I must say, the previous administration never thought to include those who toil on their behalf.’

  Duchamp frowned for a moment, before a practised smile settled on his face. ‘It is my very great pleasure, Mr … Mr Hawley. And how are you faring in your current … occupation?’

  ‘I’m chief clerk now. Colonial Secretary’s Office, as you know, of course.’ Hawley stood straighter, thrusting his chest out as though he had just been crowned king.

  ‘Good man,’ said Duchamp distractedly.

  Hawley turned to Monsarrat. ‘An unusual name,’ said Hawley as the two shook hands. ‘But one I’ve come across before – let me think … aha, yes! You spent some time in Port Macquarie, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. I was clerk to the commandant there. How on earth did you know?’

  ‘I am something of a connoisseur of fine handwriting. There is lamentably little of it about these days. I always enjoyed receiving letters from the north, and all because of your hand.’

  ‘That is most gratifying,’ said Monsarrat, bowing. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I am delighted you could join us today,’ said Duchamp to Hawley. ‘Please do make yourself at home. However, I’m afraid Mr Monsarrat and I have some business to discuss.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hawley. ‘Well, Mr Monsarrat, you must have risen in the world indeed, if you are having private meetings with the governor’s secretary.’

  Duchamp ushered Monsarrat through a drawing room studded with spindly, ornate chairs and tables, the sunlight coming in through the tall windows doing its best to brighten the room despite the wallpaper, dyed with a dark green pigment which, Monsarrat knew, had toxic properties. ‘My sister probably invited that Hawley fellow,’ Duchamp said as he led Monsarrat to an arched door at the end of the room. ‘She likes collecting people.’

  He looked around. ‘Jardine!’

  The red-coated officer who had been guarding the empty entrance hall when Monsarrat arrived was now standing at the door they were approaching, holding himself immobile as a tree stump. He reanimated and walked towards them.

  ‘Mr Monsarrat, this is my assistant, Lieutenant Jardine,’ said the colonel. ‘Jardine, you will join us. I do hope this matter will not detain us too long, as I must return to my guests. But Mr Monsarrat, if you are half the investigator that Eveleigh claims, there are certain things you need to know.’

  Jardine moved to the door and opened it, saluting as Monsarrat followed Duchamp into another darkly papered room – red this time, and dominated by a large, polished desk crouched at its centre in front of a coronation portrait of the King.

  ‘Truly, Henry Hallward was the most awful man,’ Duchamp said, taking off his sword and handing it to Jardine before settling himself behind the desk.

  Monsarrat tried not to stare at the colonel’s three crystal ink wells, paragons of their type and, to him, beautiful. His eyes, instead, followed the sword’s progress.

  Duchamp noticed. ‘A trifle overdone for a party, I grant you,’ he said. ‘But symbolism, tradition – they are what separates us from … well, others.’

  ‘From people like Hallward?’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Quite – we build, he tears down,’ Duchamp said, with the portrait of the King, who had his own ceremonial sword, glaring over his shoulder. ‘I saw him the day before he died. I like to inspect our fine institutions unannounced, you see. He was lying on his bench, all feigned innocence. A rabble-rouser, and so common, the son of convicts. You can ask anyone. Jardine – you agree, of course.’

  ‘My views are immaterial, sir,’ Jardine said. ‘Murder is murder and a crime against the Crown, no matter how distasteful the victim.’

  Duchamp glanced at Jardine, perhaps expecting a fuller endorsement, but the soldier had resumed staring at the opposite wall and did not seem inclined to elaborate, which was just as well as Duchamp didn’t give him time. ‘I was inspecting some troops when it happened. Jardine brought me the news,’ he said.

  Jardine, who had resumed his tree-stump impersonation while standing to the side of Duchamp’s desk, quirked an eyebrow upwards. An involuntary tic, perhaps, but odd in a man who held the rest of his body so still. Broad-shouldered and lacking the broken capillaries that netted his commanding officer’s face, he seemed far too robust for an administrative role. Monsarrat could imagine him on horseback swinging a sword around above his head, not at a desk blotting ink.

  ‘I see,’ said Monsarrat. ‘So, shot in the gaol yard. From outside?’

  ‘Yes, although from which building is unclear. Neither of the wardens saw it – just a noise and then he was on the ground.’

  ‘What time did this happen?’

  ‘Around ten, I believe. They’d just brought in the cart to take him to court,’ said Duchamp.

  ‘Have the constables started an investigation?’

  ‘No. I’d just leave it to them if it weren’t for the fact that Hallward was shot in Crown custody. And the rumours are spreading, too – whispers that he was shot on the orders of some of those he has attacked. Slander, of course. Once these things take hold, though, they can be hard to uproot, and some among the less educated and more gullible believe them no matter what proof they are given to the contrary. Best to disprove them conclusively before they become rusted on, eh? For the sake of the colony’s stability. You shouldn’t have to look far – the man made enemies in the gutter as well as in the finest drawing rooms.’

  ‘Oh? Man of the people, I thought,’ said Monsarrat. ‘A hero to those in the gutter, presumably.’

  ‘Mr Monsarrat, Hallward had the soul of a brawler. He was also, I hear, a fixture at some of the less refined establishments in Sydney. Those where a dispute over a game of dice can draw blood. A far more fruitful line of enquiry than looking at the targets of his printed ravings. A line I would like yo
u to pursue. There are gentlemen – a few outside in the garden at this very moment, in fact – who have felt the sharpness of Hallward’s pen. Some whose livelihoods have been put at risk by his ramblings. Such things must be put to rest. Do not think this malice has escaped the notice of the Secretary for the Colonies in London.’

  ‘I see. I had best get started. I want to interview the wardens – those who were present when he was shot. And examine the location, of course.’

  ‘Well, as to that, perhaps hold off for a day or two. There’s a little unrest at the moment. The guards are still distressed, you see.’

  ‘The murder weapon, then.’

  ‘As Mr Hallward was shot, I think we can safely assume it was a gun,’ said Duchamp, smiling in self-congratulation at his own wit.

  ‘Quite. But what sort?’

  ‘Oh, a rifle I should imagine. Plenty of them around.’

  ‘Perhaps, then, if I speak to the doctor who examined the body? I presume there was an examination?’

  ‘Oh yes. But Dr Merrick – he’s a busy man. He has asked me to send his apologies. There will be a written report in due course, but he is not available for interviews.’

  I wonder, thought Monsarrat, if Ralph Eveleigh expected Duchamp’s attempts at obstruction to be so shamelessly obvious.

  ‘And the body itself?’ he asked.

  ‘In the graveyard at St James’ Church,’ said Duchamp. ‘Where, I suspect, he is far more welcome dead than he ever was alive. His libel was not restricted to secular powers.’

  ‘He angered the clergy?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘He angered a great many people. If I need to tell you who, Eveleigh has sent the wrong man.’

  Monsarrat was used to being asked to solve murders instantly. He was also used to cooperation, or at least the semblance of it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you have told me how important it is to put rumours to rest. I’ll see if I can discover who owns the property from which the shot was taken. Go through the records in the Colonial Secretary’s Office, see who owns it.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’re very thorough here in Sydney, Mr Monsarrat. But I really must ask you not to bother the Colonial Secretary. Most inappropriate.’

  ‘May I ask, then, where you suggest I start?’

  ‘I have no intention of doing your job for you, Mr Monsarrat, for I am far too busy with my own. And I’ll thank you not to dawdle on your way out – my guests wouldn’t appreciate a crow such as yourself at the feast.’

  Hannah knew that Henrietta was just trying to be kind. But if the girl patted her hand one more time, as though she was a dotard who needed to be kept compliant, Hannah would jump onto a table, yell Erin go bragh at the top of her voice, and run.

  After twenty minutes, during which Henrietta showed Hannah a polished grand piano on the veranda and insisted she admire the rosebushes, the woman’s prattling showed little sign of slowing. She did not even pause to eat, seemingly reluctant to consume any of the tiny cakes set out on the table. Henrietta was verging on emaciated, nearly as thin as some of the women Hannah had met in Parramatta’s Female Factory, and it seemed an insult for her to shun food that would have sent a convict into raptures.

  The flow of words about dresses and the theatre and horse riding and walks through the new Botanic Gardens slowed, though, when another young woman approached. She was older than Henrietta, perhaps in her late twenties. Her clothes had none of the froth of Henrietta’s gown: a dark blue visiting dress, a lace collar. Her hair was not sprouting feathers or studded with jewels, unlike many of the heads here. Her face was angular and well proportioned; she had the smooth skin of someone who had spent much of her life under a gentler sun than this. But her face was drawn, her eyes slightly sunken.

  She said, ‘Miss Duchamp, is this party to celebrate the passing of Mr Hallward or to mourn the death of free speech?’

  A shadow rippled across Henrietta’s face for a moment. ‘A man’s death is nothing to celebrate, Miss Albrecht.’

  The woman paused, looking at Henrietta. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘No, indeed.’ Her voice was clipped. Hannah thought she heard a slight accent, and she saw a tightness around the woman’s jaw, a clench of anger quickly smoothed over. Perhaps the woman felt Hannah’s eyes on her; she started as though shaken from a reverie. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Miss Albrecht, please,’ said Henrietta, ‘I admire your directness, but perhaps a few more niceties?’

  ‘Although,’ said Hannah, ‘it does save time.’ She turned to Miss Albrecht and smiled. ‘I am Hannah Mulrooney.’

  The woman inclined her head. ‘Carolina Albrecht. I have not heard of you, Mrs Mulrooney.’

  ‘No. I am newly arrived from Parramatta.’

  ‘And why are you here?’

  ‘Perhaps our new friend is weary of such questions,’ said Henrietta. ‘You know yourself, Miss Albrecht, how wearing such scrutiny can be for a newcomer.’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit,’ said Hannah.

  Henrietta pursed her lips. Hannah risked aiming a small smile at Carolina, whose mouth quirked.

  ‘In any case,’ said Henrietta, ‘I’m sure Miss Albrecht has some preparations to make.’

  ‘Yes, I do have some business to attend to.’

  As Carolina made her way towards the terrace, Hannah noticed that others parted to let her pass, whispering to each other as she did so. She seemed in no hurry to climb the steps, perhaps oblivious to the eyes on her back, or perhaps enjoying them. She went to the piano and trailed a finger along its shining top, as a servant rang a small bell to get the attention of the guests. Carolina perched herself on the edge of the brocade stool before the piano. Perhaps she would pound the keys in frustration – Hannah would sympathise.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the footman said, ‘may I present Miss Carolina Albrecht.’

  Judging by the din of the applause that followed, several people had been looking forward to this. When Carolina started playing, Hannah realised why. The performance was perfect, at least as far as she could tell – recital music had not been much of a feature in her life as a convict and then a housekeeper. It was more than that, though; instead of simply depressing the ivory keys, Carolina seemed to be coaxing music out of the reticent mechanism of the piano, notes running together in a way that was almost hypnotic.

  Henrietta was one of the few who did not seem rapt. She leaned over to Hannah and whispered in her ear, a gesture that seemed shockingly intimate from a young woman who had probably been schooled in etiquette before learning less important subjects like reading. ‘I did not think she would come.’

  ‘Who on earth is she?’

  ‘Quite a good little pianist, as it happens, but the manners of a navvy – I suppose she puts all of her finer feelings into her music. She is a friend of – well, of his.’

  ‘His?’

  ‘Hallward. An awfully common man, dreadfully irresponsible, but those who liked him seemed to do so with some fervour.’

  ‘You must have been shocked to hear of the shooting, common man or not,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Oh, yes. I was at the Female School of Industry when it happened. The place trains lower-class girls to be servants, and just as well, good servants are the devil to find, here. One of the girls raced in with the news. It caused most unladylike wailing – he was something of a hero to those people. But Miss Albrecht – I thought she might be too distressed to play.’

  ‘Perhaps she is, but hiding it well,’ said Hannah. ‘Some have that skill.’

  A man spoke behind them. ‘You seem engrossed in the performance, Miss Duchamp.’ His voice was deep and bore the accent of northern England. Henrietta turned, startled, but released her breath when she saw who had spoken, narrowing her eyes at the man for a moment before her practised smile reappeared.

  The man smiled back benignly. In a town where the rich and the commissioned were clean-shaven, and many convicts wore their sentences in the form of beards, this man seemed uncertain as to where he belo
nged. His moustache was as carefully tended as the flowerbeds, running down the sides of his mouth and then up towards his ears.

  ‘Mr Mobbs, I wasn’t expecting you today,’ Henrietta said, and turned away.

  ‘Will you not introduce me to your friend?’

  Henrietta turned to Hannah. ‘Mrs Mulrooney, may I present Mr Gerald Mobbs, proprietor of the Colonial Flyer.’

  Mobbs smiled and bowed.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Hannah said to him. ‘You must be distressed by the loss of your fellow newspaperman.’

  ‘Dreadful business. And we don’t want people to get into the habit of shooting editors.’ He turned towards the piano. ‘She was very tight with Hallward,’ he said. ‘Makes you wonder why she’s here.’

  And that, thought Hannah, was no doubt a very good question indeed.

  Duchamp had dismissed Monsarrat and Jardine at the same time, as though they were indistinguishable irritants. As they left, the colonel bent over his notes with all the avidity of a man avoiding a garden party.

  ‘A busy man,’ said Monsarrat to Jardine.

  ‘Yes, particularly with the governor away.’

  ‘So I imagine he will not take kindly to interruptions should I need to seek permission for anything.’

  ‘You may rely on me, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Jardine.

  ‘Is there hope, then, of talking to the doctor or the wardens?’

  Jardine held up a hand. ‘I wouldn’t push on those two. We’ll see what can be done in due course. There are, though, other avenues you might pursue as you wait. The editor of the Colonial Flyer, Mr Gerald Mobbs.’

  ‘You think he might have had something to do with the murder?’ Monsarrat asked.

  ‘Not a bit of it. But he was among Mr Hallward’s most frequent critics, together with certain members of the clergy. Now, shall we fetch your aunt?’

  ‘That’s helpful of you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I have been commanded to assist you, Mr Monsarrat, and I take commands from my superior very seriously. As I do breaches of the King’s peace and his laws. Killing is one thing on the gallows or the battlefield. But when a hidden person fires on an unarmed man, the coward deserves to feel the full force of the law.’