The Ink Stain

by Tom Keneally

  If that was the case, thought Monsarrat, cronyism must have fired its shot from some height.

  Duchamp had shown no inclination to allow Monsarrat to visit the gaol. But the land outside was public property.

  The autumn air was still mild, even in the late afternoon, but the chill in the shadow of the gaol walls made Monsarrat glad of his black frock coat, which he would cheerfully have cast aside in the warmer months had propriety allowed it.

  The gaol crouched on a patch of land hemmed in by what looked like houses, although they were probably divided into apartments. It seemed unlikely that anyone who could afford a house all to themselves would have risked breathing the same air as the inmates day after day. The prison’s sandstone walls, golden in the afternoon sun, concealed a yard where the state – having decided exile was no longer sufficient punishment – squeezed the last breaths from the worst of the prisoners. The stone expanse was only relieved by an arched gate, its dark wood studded with reinforcing nails; it had probably been built by some of those who eventually languished behind it.

  The shot must surely have come from one of the nearby houses, although it was impossible to tell which one. Not without standing where Hallward lost his life. The spot was only a few yards away, but it might as well be on the other side of the world.

  Monsarrat heard a scrape behind him, and turned to see the gates of the gaol’s main entrance opening. Out stepped two women, clothes grey and stained, their unkempt hair hanging unbound from underneath cloth caps which had once been white. The women might have been Monsarrat’s age, or Mrs Mulrooney’s: the ravages of poverty, which had taken some of their teeth, had granted them a kind of agelessness.

  They were accompanied by a rough and unshaven man, but he was clearly not a prisoner. He dropped a few coins into their hands and re-entered the gaol, closing the door behind him as the two women turned and walked towards Monsarrat.

  ‘Pardon me, ladies,’ he said as they passed. They stopped, stared as though he had spoken a foreign language. They were very possibly used to being addressed in different terms.

  Monsarrat waited for a response. Not getting one, he nervously cleared his throat.

  ‘May I ask, what brought you to the gaol today?’

  Silence.

  ‘Only, you see, I have a friend in there. I’m worried for his health, and wanted reassurance he wasn’t rotting in muck.’

  The two women looked at each other, and began to move off.

  ‘I’m concerned enough to spend a shilling for a report on the conditions in there.’

  One of them slowed, turned, but the other grabbed her elbow and hurried her along.

  ‘A shilling – each,’ said Monsarrat.

  Both of them stopped this time, turning and staring. Monsarrat reached into his breast pocket in hopes of being able to find two shillings. Successful, he held up the two coins, one in each hand. Both of the women put out their palms, and he slowly placed a coin in each.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ said one of the women – frizzle-haired, etched skin, probably the older of the two. From Lancashire, he decided, as she continued to speak. ‘Whether your friend is in muck or not depends on how much money he has. Them that can pay, they get clean bedding, better food. If they can’t – well.’

  ‘The wardens won’t be taking as much this week though,’ said the other woman. ‘On account of everyone having a clean cell at the moment.’

  ‘Really? Why is that?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Some lord or whoever. Decided the place needed a good scrub. Wanted it cleaned from end to end.’

  ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t say,’ said the older woman. ‘Some of that dirt has been there since before I was transported. So your friend will have clean straw even if he hasn’t paid for it. For a few days or so, until the rot creeps back in.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you.’

  The older woman shrugged, nodded to her friend. As they moved away, Monsarrat wondered why an administration which was usually happy to let people sit in their own filth suddenly wanted to clean the dirtiest corners of the colony.

  Chapter 4

  Another starched jacket with a fussy little collar. Another brooch. Hannah would never have bought these clothes without Mr Monsarrat’s urging. She could by now have dozens of outfits – the money from the sale of a ruined necklace, given to her by the husband of the woman who had nearly killed her, now sat in a vault at the Bank of New South Wales. But were it up to Hannah she would not have spent a penny of it. It was for her son, Padraig, to set him up in the colonial respectability of his own public house.

  In the face of Padraig’s silence, however, and Monsarrat’s insistence that her housekeeper role would not serve her well in this case, she had relented. Each day, she regretted it more. There was only one small compensation: a purchase she had nipped out to make after Monsarrat had loped away in the direction of the Colonial Flyer newsroom.

  As the owner of a new fan – albeit one intended mostly for offensive purposes – Hannah felt she would cut quite a fashionable figure in Sydney’s ornate gardens.

  She had reckoned, though, without Henrietta Duchamp.

  The frilly pink parasol that the girl had been swinging around at the party had been temporarily retired from service, along with its matching dress. This afternoon, Henrietta was wearing a pale blue gown, and its companion parasol was made of the same fabric, swagged with blue ribbon.

  ‘You must take better care of your skin in this dreadful climate,’ Henrietta exclaimed, as a footman helped Hannah into the coach that had arrived at the boarding house, much to the amazement of Miss Douglas, who had returned from her errands just in time to see it thundering up the road.

  ‘I have a lovely new bonnet,’ said Hannah, tugging on the ribbon beneath her chin.

  ‘Rather provincial,’ said Henrietta, giving Hannah’s hand its first pat of the afternoon. ‘Please do not take offence. It’s not your fault – it must be difficult to keep abreast of fashions when you live outside Sydney. But now you have me!’

  ‘Yes, how fortunate,’ said Hannah, wondering what the refined young ladies of London and Paris would make of Henrietta’s assertion that Sydney was a centre of fashion.

  ‘I always bring a spare parasol,’ said Henrietta, reaching under the coach’s seat. ‘Take it, I insist.’

  If there was a polite way to refuse, Hannah couldn’t think of it. She had been handed a mass of white lace, with ribbons dripping from the edge of the parasol frame. She looked as if she were carrying a cake on a stick. ‘How very kind,’ she said.

  ‘Think nothing of it! I do believe it’s important to help the less fortunate.’ As the coach negotiated the streets of the cove’s fashionable eastern shore, on its way towards the gardens, Henrietta told Hannah of her charitable works with widows and orphans. ‘It can be distasteful work, of course,’ she said. ‘A lad once coughed blood onto my dress and I had to burn it. But as a Christian woman, I feel I must keep at it.’

  Hannah felt a pang of worry for this unknown boy. In the convict huts she had seen orphans abandoned to starvation, disease or abuse. Only luck had prevented a similar fate befalling her Padraig.

  ‘I would be delighted to assist you in your endeavours,’ Hannah told Henrietta. ‘If you have need of it.’

  ‘That is a generous offer, but really I only go once every few months, and it’s rather, well, social. The domain of a certain type of lady. I would hate for you to be uncomfortable.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hannah, ‘we must not make people uncomfortable.’

  ‘Quite so. Ah – here we are.’

  The coach had pulled up at a pair of wrought-iron gates set into sandstone pillars. The gates were open onto a broad pathway that snaked around the harbour.

  ‘You will very much enjoy this, Mrs Mulrooney. It really is the most marvellous place, and everyone will be here on a day like this.’

  Hannah could see why. Leaving the coach, they sta
rted walking along a path bounded by the glistening water on one side with the scrubby north shore in the distance, and a profusion of trees and flowers on the other. These were interspersed with statues of naked nymphs that were robbed of all salaciousness by their blank stone eyes – clearly a refinement shipped from England. When Hannah had first arrived, the imports were of canvas, cordage, tea and salted meat. What a wonder that the colony had reached a point where they were now importing nymphs.

  ‘I do hope you will not take offence at this, either,’ said Henrietta, nodding to a gentleman who was walking in the other direction, ‘but I couldn’t help detecting a certain lilt in your voice.’

  ‘You have a good ear, Miss Duchamp,’ Hannah said, resisting the urge to swat the hand that had snaked its way around her arm.

  ‘You are Church of England, of course,’ Henrietta said.

  ‘It’s called Church of Ireland there.’

  ‘Oh yes, quite so,’ said Henrietta, and Hannah sent up a prayer of thanks to several saints. Letting the girl believe she was a Protestant was one thing, but being forced to overtly disavow her own religion would have cost her more than she was willing to pay.

  A group of young women passed by, a knot of silk and whispers, heads bent over a sheet of paper as they walked slowly to avoid tripping on their skirts. Henrietta waggled her fingers at them, and they each bobbed a quick curtsey to her before they continued their stroll.

  ‘Miss Albrecht, this morning,’ said Hannah. ‘Her lack of deference was quite in contrast to that of those ladies.’

  Henrietta frowned. ‘To hear her tell it, she is an artist. That type seem to believe different rules apply to them.’

  ‘And I imagine she associates with other unsuitable people,’ said Hannah, fully aware that if Henrietta knew the truth, she would consider Hannah to be most unsuitable.

  ‘Well, precisely!’ said Henrietta. ‘I told you about Hallward, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, I seem to recall – who is he, again?’ said Hannah, sending up another quick prayer, this one of apology for the pretence, and scanning the sky for lightning bolts.

  ‘I thought you’d have known,’ said Henrietta. ‘He is the man whose murder your nephew is investigating.’

  ‘Ah. An ugly business. I try to stay away from it as much as possible.’

  ‘You’re very wise,’ said Henrietta. ‘There are those who try to stay out of trouble, and those who can’t help running towards it – like Hallward. And Miss Albrecht, come to that.’ Henrietta leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, ‘Do you know, she plays for money? Quite scandalous!’

  She’s probably rather fond of eating, Hannah thought, while effecting a look of scandalised disbelief. ‘Truly! Where on earth would one even do such a thing? Surely not in a public house.’

  ‘Oh, no, not quite that scandalous. She’d never be admitted to Government House if she did. No, she provides entertainment for some of the better households, during parties and so forth. Occasionally she plays at the recital hall not far from here. Not a place I would ever visit, but I suppose it brings music to the masses. A lot of people are charmed by her, saying she is quite the musician, but most of them are men, and I rather think they’re dazzled by some of her other attributes.’

  ‘And these other attributes – was Mr Hallward acquainted with them?’

  Henrietta chuckled. ‘You are a naughty one, Mrs Mulrooney. I’ve never heard a rumour to that effect. But I’ve never heard it denied, either. Who knows what happens behind the most respectable of doors, let alone those belonging to the likes of Miss Albrecht?’

  Hannah and Henrietta were walking towards a man who stood to the side of the path, distributing sheets of paper – like the one, Hannah realised, the group of girls had been giggling over – from a battered leather satchel. As they were about to pass him, Hannah paused. ‘I’ll take one of those, please,’ she said to him.

  Henrietta’s eyes narrowed. ‘And my brother will take the rest of them,’ she said. ‘Stay away from that man, Mrs Mulrooney, I beg you, he is peddling lies!’

  ‘Not peddling nothing, miss,’ the man said. ‘Not charging for these.’

  ‘I will be reporting you, nevertheless,’ said Henrietta, turning and walking off.

  Hannah raised her eyebrows at the man. He shrugged and handed her a pamphlet, which she folded and slid into her reticule just as Henrietta turned back. ‘Do come away, Mrs Mulrooney.’

  Several other groups, mostly young ladies interspersed with the occasional couple, greeted Henrietta as they passed.

  ‘You seem to know just about everyone here,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Oh, I come here as often as I can. The business of governing is so dreary to observe. Although … there is one political issue on which I have a strong view.’

  Hannah held her breath.

  ‘Our current governor, bless him, has taken remarkable strides in terms of discipline and efficiency – so Edward says, anyway. But Darling was beaten to a very important initiative by his predecessor: the formation of the Sydney Turf Club.’

  ‘I presume you don’t mean the kind of turf men cut.’

  Henrietta threw back her head and laughed. ‘No, of course not! No, I mean racing – horse racing, I hasten to add, not sweaty men pounding around a track. You must come!’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the first thing about racing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘As if that matters! Leave that to those men who enjoy it. You should hear them go on about which stallion is out of which mare, and whether they have endurance or speed. Those men pay more attention to horses than they do their wives. But that’s not the only attraction of the races – they provide an opportunity to socialise and show off one’s new dress. And even for those who care little about horseflesh, the atmosphere can be quite extraordinary if a race is a close-run thing.’

  ‘Well, atmosphere – I do understand the importance of that.’

  The excitement of the races, though, was the furthest thing from Hannah’s mind. She was remembering the sight of twenty thousand people on a hill surrounded by British soldiers, the low Irish sky made lower by the smoke from burning houses. That was what entered her mind whenever she thought of atmosphere, and it would be impossible to replace it with the silly image of horses running around for the entertainment of people who had nothing better to do.

  ‘You must come,’ Henrietta insisted breathlessly. ‘You must! There is a race meeting on Saturday morning. It would do you the world of good to see it, someone as sheltered as yourself.’

  ‘Of course! Thank you.’

  Hannah wondered why Henrietta, who by her own reckoning was vastly socially superior, was so enthusiastic to start a friendship with her. Was she using Hannah to keep track of the movements of Mr Monsarrat? Even if that was the case, Hannah intended to cultivate the woman, and could not fault Henrietta for doing the same.

  She also knew well that atmosphere was created by strong emotions – such as excitement or terror – which tended to reveal the truth about people. She would be fascinated to see if anyone allowed their shell to crack at this race meeting.

  Chapter 5

  ‘A bit melodramatic, this headline,’ said Monsarrat, holding up the pamphlet. ‘“Sinister Forces at Work”. Sounds like something from a play.’

  ‘Before you sniff at it, Mr Monsarrat, perhaps you should read the whole thing,’ Mrs Mulrooney said. ‘And if the circumstances of Hallward’s murder are not sinister, then …’

  ‘Yes, yes, give me a minute. It does look professionally done, actually – almost like a newspaper.’ He squinted at the pamphlet, which was simply a single page, printed on one side with that febrile headline above a few columns of text and without illustration.

  Many of the free occupants of this colony have failed to notice that their rights are under attack. The government is stealing them – not with the direct assault of a highwayman, but with the stealth of a pickpocket.

  The owner of one of our two newspapers – a man k
nown for exposing the worst excesses of the administration – has been murdered, leaving only the Colonial Flyer in operation. That paper’s editor, Mr Gerald Mobbs, is merely as critical of the administration as he needs to be in order to retain his credibility. More often, he prefers to ignore any issue that casts the government in a negative light.

  For instance, Mr Mobbs has not informed his readers of a plan by the governor to license newspapers, meaning that only those who sing the praises of the administration will be allowed to operate. As the government is now rid of its most courageous provocateur, only one voice is left in Sydney. The government will set heaven and hell in motion to ensure it owns that voice.

  The pamphlet went on to compare Henry Hallward’s editorials to the tepid pronouncements of Mobbs.

  ‘Well?’ said Mrs Mulrooney.

  ‘Well, the writing is a little stilted, and that “heaven and hell” idiom is a bit odd –’

  ‘Eejit of a man! I want to know what you think of Vindex’s words, not how he is saying them.’

  ‘Vindex?’

  Mrs Mulrooney jabbed her finger at the bottom of the page. ‘It’s signed Vindex.’

  ‘The vindicator,’ said Monsarrat. ‘In accusing Mobbs, is the writer after vindication?’

  ‘You don’t think Mobbs could be the killer, then?’ Hannah asked. ‘He told you himself that Hallward was going to destroy his livelihood.’

  ‘He’s not as extreme as Hallward, but he doesn’t seem to mind upsetting people when he feels it is warranted. And in any case, he was at the Colonial Secretary’s Office.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says Mobbs. It’s so easy to confirm, I’m inclined to believe it.’ Monsarrat reached across the dining-room table for another slice of the bread which sat on a silver tray next to a plate of cheese, both deposited by Miss Douglas half an hour earlier.

  He stopped mid-stretch when he saw Mrs Mulrooney glaring at him. ‘Freedom has clearly not improved your manners,’ she said, pointedly passing him the platter of bread. ‘And Colonel Duchamp was one of Hallward’s targets?’