The Ink Stain

by Tom Keneally

  From Monsarrat’s time as a convict clerk in Port Macquarie, he still had some canvas trousers and a simple shirt. They weren’t government-issue convict clothes, but rough enough. He had worn them during his confinement in the vastness of the north to go fishing. Since leaving Port Macquarie he had tried to run away from his time as the man in the little hut, who had escaped the work gangs solely because of his intricate handwriting. Its flourishes and evenness had added weight to the requests and recommendations sent to the colonial secretary from Port Macquarie. He had not worn the clothes since he had arrived in Parramatta the previous year. But he kept them with him – a reminder that the rough fabric would claim him again if he did not present his superiors with a murderer.

  The clothes felt far rougher than they used to, and he chided himself for getting soft. By the time he had walked to the little steps leading down to the harbour from the Botanic Gardens’ gate, he could feel skin beginning to abrade on the inside of his legs.

  Donnelly was there already, bobbing up and down in a rowboat tied to a cleat at the bottom of the steps. He startled when Monsarrat appeared, perhaps fearing a convict or navvy had decided to take their chances with the toff in the boat. Donnelly was far too well dressed for a fishing expedition.

  When he recognised Monsarrat, he threw back his head and roared, ‘Mr Monsarrat! Don’t tell me you thought we were actually going to fish?’

  ‘Oddly enough, Mr Donnelly, I did gain that impression from your invitation. Although, I have to say, I apprehended there might be some conversation as well.’

  ‘Ah yes, well …’ Donnelly reached down to pick up a fishing rod. ‘We might as well make our trip as plausible as possible.’

  The sun was eating away at the night as they rowed away from the gardens, past small tree-covered islands. Monsarrat did not know what the natives called them, but there was one the convicts called Pinchgut; for years, the most refractory prisoners had been dumped there like refuse, and given refuse to eat as well. The island was uninhabited now, but some swore they heard wails skimming across the water on still nights.

  As they headed east towards the mouth of the harbour, the structures along the shore thinned out and then disappeared entirely. The rowboat was approaching the two sandstone protrusions that Monsarrat had first passed through in the bowels of a convict ship. The waters of the harbour could occasionally mimic the open ocean, particularly near the heads where the sea rushed in. This morning, though, the water was almost flat, disturbed only by some tiny ridges called forth by a light breeze. Donnelly did not even bother to throw overboard the circular stone tied to a rope that sat in the boat’s bow.

  When they stopped rowing, Donnelly and Monsarrat craned their necks in all directions, looking for anyone on shore who might notice the odd pairing of a man in a jacket and cravat opposite one in slops. But the only eyes belonged to white birds with violently yellow crests and stubby black beaks, staring down at them from the clifftop trees.

  ‘Rare to see anyone here,’ Donnelly said. ‘The lookouts of the signal station will be gazing out to sea. Still, as you’ve gone to such trouble with your attire …’ He handed Monsarrat the fishing rod.

  The sea was calm enough for Monsarrat to hear the plunk of the sinker as it broke the water’s surface. He held the rod but did not expect to feel an answering tug from beneath. As far as he could see, the hook wasn’t baited.

  ‘I saw you,’ said Donnelly, ‘knocking on the doors of the houses near the gaol.’

  ‘Yes, well, they are the only place the shot could have been fired from.’

  ‘Precisely so. Still, I was surprised to see you make the effort.’

  ‘Why? Surely it’s the first step a conscientious investigator would take.’

  ‘Yes, a conscientious investigator. I wasn’t expecting the government to appoint one of those.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  Donnelly opened his mouth, closed it again, then looked at Monsarrat as though trying to decide whether to trust him. ‘Mr Monsarrat, are you aware that I run a small grammar school?’

  Monsarrat felt a stab of envy. Running such an enterprise had been his own ambition in England, and if the barristers he’d worked for had agreed to release him, he might yet be sitting by a fire in Exeter with a wife, working on the next day’s Latin lesson.

  ‘A rewarding occupation,’ he said.

  ‘Particularly, in our case, for a fellow on our Board of Governors: Albert Bancroft. He liked to attend the racecourse on occasion. Was not always judicious in his betting. And some of the school’s funds were carried away on the noses of slow horses.’

  ‘Stealing from children takes a particular kind of criminal,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘That it does, and I do hope the fellow doesn’t do it again, because he is still on the board.’

  ‘Did you not report him?’

  ‘I most certainly did. The governor’s office decided not to involve the constabulary and sent their own man to investigate. Bancroft confessed and offered to pay back the money. And that was good enough. The investigator did not bother to look at the accounts, did not talk to anyone at the racecourse, and did not even interview me, despite my request to see him. He just took Bancroft’s word that the money would be paid back. Hallward was wonderful, wrote a thundering editorial about it. But two months later, our school is yet to see a penny.’

  ‘And you believe I intend to operate in a similar fashion?’

  ‘Not since I saw you knocking on those doors. And there’s a certain fellow. Known to many in Sydney, whether they like pies or philosophy. I know he spends time in Parramatta as well as here, and he happens to be of the view that you’re to be trusted.’

  ‘Well, I’m gratified by your faith in me, and I can assure you that this is no sham investigation. But you could have just asked for a meeting with me.’

  ‘Yes, and wherever that meeting took place, word of it would have likely trickled back up the chain of authority, where I am not the most popular of the King’s subjects.’

  ‘I take it the protest at the gaol was not your first, then,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Not by a mile,’ said Donnelly. ‘But that is not the administration’s chief annoyance with me. I did tend to be a fairly regular correspondent in the pages of the Chronicle.’

  ‘Did you indeed? And I’m presuming that you did not write in praise of the governor.’

  Donnelly chuckled, reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping. ‘Read this at your leisure,’ he said as he handed it to Monsarrat. ‘I know it is still possible that you are the governor’s man and that anything I say will carry no weight, but I did want you to be aware of who I am, what my position is, before you accepted my help.’

  ‘And what form will that help take?’ asked Monsarrat. He jiggled the line, from habit more than expectation; it remained stubbornly straight and unmoving in the water.

  ‘A little background information. A nudge here or there in the right direction.’

  Background information. Nudges. None of it sounded tremendously useful.

  ‘Or what you perceive to be the right direction,’ said Monsarrat. ‘You are correct in assuming that I’m not conducting this investigation with the governor’s agenda in mind – and nor will I let yours guide me.’

  Donnelly held up both hands. ‘Utterly fair. Reassures me, actually.’

  I doubt that, thought Monsarrat. I wonder if there is more than one person seeking to influence the course of this investigation.

  ‘As we’ve taken the trouble to row out here, I presume your guidance will begin now.’

  ‘Yes, well. First, a little background. The governor is not the only one who has taken Mr Hallward to court. Last year, even before Darling’s arrival, no less a person than Archdeacon Harvey, the colony’s foremost churchman, tried to sue him for trespass. No doubt at the urging of Alcott – that’s the reverend at St James. He worships Harvey far more than he worships God, taking any insult to the archdeacon as
a personal affront.’

  ‘Ah. I find it reasonably easy to annoy clergymen. Are you suggesting the clergy had something to do with all this?’

  ‘No … but Alcott is reputed to be a rather good shot. And during one sermon I sat through, the reverend said that criticism of the clergy is akin to blasphemy and should attract the same penalty as treason.’

  ‘Death, in other words,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I assume he wasn’t speaking generally.’

  ‘No, indeed. The previous day, Hallward had written a story exposing the archdeacon’s salary while suggesting his flock was not getting enough value.’

  Monsarrat smiled ruefully, shook his head. ‘The man seems to have been unable to help himself,’ he said.

  ‘No, and thank God for it.’

  ‘I imagine he has run afoul of the magistracy too. Personally, I find that almost as easy as annoying the clergy.’

  ‘It’s a little different here in Sydney,’ said Donnelly. ‘We have fewer of your Parramatta landed gentry. A lot of the magistrates here used to be convicts.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Yes. Although that’s not likely to continue now. But there’s someone you should meet. Fellow called James Collins – on the bench, but probably not for long.’

  ‘Very well. Should I attend his chambers?’

  ‘Absolutely not! Word’d be back to Duchamp within the hour. May I ask, do you like rum?’

  Monsarrat enjoyed the occasional brandy. A glass of claret, if circumstances put one in his path. Rum, though, tasted as though it had been made with the removal of rust or a medical procedure in mind. His stomach still clenched at the memory of one night when he had drunk it to excess, in pursuit of information on a Parramatta murder. If one wished to become intoxicated, there were far more pleasant ways.

  ‘I have no objection to rum,’ he said to Donnelly.

  ‘Excellent. Tomorrow afternoon, then? After my classes. At the Sheer Hulk – do you know it? Near Gloucester Street. A little further up the hill from the docks. You’ll recognise it by the barber’s pole outside.’

  ‘And I presume there’s no barbershop in sight?’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Plenty of sly grog, but if anyone there offers you a haircut I would decline. The owner pays off the constables, you see. Most of them are former convicts, so they’re happy to turn a blind eye. But just in case somebody further up becomes inconveniently moral and asks them to look into the place, they can say that it has all the hallmarks of a legitimate business. You might find the man on the door a little suspicious of you at first. Just say you’re there to see me. My name might not carry much weight at Government House, but in certain other circles it is worth a great deal indeed.’

  ‘Very well. Was Hallward a regular patron?’

  ‘On occasion, though drink was never his vice – causing controversy was far more to his liking. He attracted lawsuits like lint. He was particularly good at annoying self-important beneficiaries of patronage such as Edward Duchamp.’

  ‘But Duchamp hasn’t taken legal action against Hallward.’

  ‘True,’ said Donnelly. ‘Mobbs has, though, perhaps on Duchamp’s behalf. Someone broke into the Chronicle’s office last month and stole the next day’s edition. Mobbs publicly denied the theft, but he boasted enough privately that word got back to Hallward.’

  ‘But it’s a crime! Surely Mobbs was arrested?’

  ‘When Hallward went to the constables about it, they seemed singularly uninterested.’

  ‘You think they were instructed by the administration not to investigate?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Henry certainly thought so. The following week he published an accusation in the Chronicle against Mobbs for the theft, and also against Edward Duchamp for covering it up. So Mobbs sued him.’

  ‘And Duchamp didn’t? Surely he wouldn’t let it stand?’

  ‘Certainly not. The colonel loves his ceremonies, his symbolism. So he sought a distinctly martial form of redress: he challenged Hallward to a duel.’

  ‘A duel? Good Lord. How did you come to know about it?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Because I, Mr Monsarrat, was Henry Hallward’s second.’

  Donnelly reached inside his jacket, extracted some more newspaper clippings.

  ‘I don’t usually hang on to anything from the Flyer,’ he said, handing the papers to Monsarrat. They did not produce the dry rustle of aged, crackling pages, but they had not been treated gently. A few sheets had obviously been crumpled and then smoothed out. ‘Its editor is a lick-arse. Not a very good writer either.’

  The first document brought forth a muted leap of recognition in Monsarrat’s memory, the Flyer being Ralph Eveleigh’s paper of choice. Monsarrat had been serving as his clerk at the time, and always looked at the papers after Eveleigh was done with them. The article read:

  An affair of honour has taken place between Colonel Duchamp, private secretary to the governor, and Mr Hallward, editor of the Sydney Chronicle, in consequence of a paragraph wherein the colonel’s name was coupled with that of Mr Gerald Mobbs in a case of slander.

  Monsarrat stopped reading and looked up. ‘Mobbs?’ he asked. ‘Why did he publish a story about a duel to which he was linked?’

  Donnelly nodded towards the page.

  Mr Hallward, known for his expression of feverish sentiments, suggested that the editor of this very paper, having dosed his pressmen with gin, exhorted them to break into the Sydney Chronicle’s offices and slyly procure a copy of that journal the night before its publication. On levelling these charges against Mr Mobbs, Mr Hallward claimed that the alleged break-in had been at the behest of Colonel Duchamp.

  Your editor is, unlike his counterpart, a temperate man, and determined to let the issue lie; however, Colonel Duchamp felt honour needed to be addressed and gave Mr Hallward a choice between apologising or duelling. Mr Hallward chose the latter.

  Monsarrat’s eye snagged on the next paragraph of the article. As he had claimed, Donnelly was indeed Hallward’s second. Duchamp’s second, as it turned out, was Albert Bancroft.

  Two shots had been fired, Monsarrat read, and after each round the seconds had tried to negotiate for an apology. Eventually, they had succeeded – Hallward had agreed to apologise, but only for mentioning Duchamp in connection with the robbery. The story concluded:

  We are happy the matter ended without bloodshed and cannot help expressing our regret that two such valuable colonists as the colonel and Mr Hallward should unnecessarily expose themselves to so much danger, on so trivial an occasion.

  ‘So Mobbs had the gall to moralise over the duel when his actions caused it,’ said Monsarrat. ‘And no bloodshed. Are duels not supposed to have winners?’

  ‘You would think so,’ said Donnelly.

  ‘Duchamp’s a decent shot, from what I hear,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Did he not intend to shoot Hallward? Just wanted to send a pistol ball into the air to satisfy honour, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Actually, we heard rumours. He was boasting to cronies, saying all his problems would soon be solved. In the end they weren’t. Hallward walked away. But was he supposed to, as far as Duchamp was concerned? I rather think not.’

  ‘Duels! Little boys playing with dangerous toys. Lucky to make it to old age, most of them,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.

  ‘Well, of course some of them don’t,’ said Monsarrat.

  Mrs Mulrooney crossed herself. ‘Hallward. Perhaps Mr Cullen can tell us something about it.’

  Those who saw her gesture might have assumed she was on her way from church, had anyone been about. But even approaching midday the Sunday streets were almost empty, and they passed only a handful of people on their way to the Chronicle offices.

  Cullen shook his head when he opened the door to Monsarrat’s knock. He turned and went back into the office without waiting for them to follow. When they were inside, he asked, ‘What have I done to deserve both of you?’

  ‘Well, if we are a punishment, I’m afraid you’re paying for the si
ns of others,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Specifically, for the crime of duelling.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Cullen. ‘I told him not to.’

  He dragged some chairs around Hallward’s imposing desk, settling Mrs Mulrooney behind it. She gave a brief nod, as though in approval of her superior placement.

  ‘He didn’t listen?’ she said.

  ‘No. But I’ll tell you this. He was a lot more worried afterwards. Said Duchamp was worse than corrupt. Said he was an ideologue – that’s the word he used – who believed his corruption was justified. And that he was saved, in some way. He’d written a will, you see. Left it with me. Not that he had much to leave, but he seemed to think it was a real possibility that he wouldn’t come back.’

  ‘And the break-in which led to the duel,’ asked Monsarrat. ‘Any similarities to the looting a little while ago?’

  ‘When they were looking for the next day’s edition, they were precise,’ said Cullen. ‘Nothing else taken, nothing else broken. The looters seemed intent on doing as much damage as possible. On making sure we never published another edition. But the newspaper was broken into that night, no doubt about that, and the next day’s edition stolen.’

  ‘To what purpose, though?’ asked Monsarrat. ‘Surely the Flyer couldn’t have replicated anything in time to go on sale the next day.’

  ‘No. But whether it was the Flyer or another culprit, they found out what was going to be in our paper – an editorial in which Mr Hallward accused Colonel Duchamp of abusing his position, getting himself huge grants of land in the Liverpool Plains.’

  ‘How could Duchamp have known this would be in the next day’s paper? Mrs Mulrooney asked.

  ‘Ah, Mr Hallward was not the discreet type. He was always boasting about the paper.’

  ‘Yet nobody knew what he was writing about when he died,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘No,’ said Cullen, ‘and that would have worried some. He usually couldn’t resist bragging, or at least giving little hints. To make him discreet, it must have been a remarkable story.’