by Tom Keneally
‘No. Would you expect us to be?’
‘I don’t know what to expect now. You could have tried to be a bit more discreet, though.’ He inclined his head towards the window.
Monsarrat walked over and saw McCarthy still sitting on his seat, hand near his pistol.
‘Who do you think would be following you, sir?’ asked Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Oh, by the way, may I sit down?’ The room, in addition to a bare mattress on the rusted base, contained a small table with one rickety chair.
‘By all means,’ said Gleeson. ‘Although I can’t vouch for the stability of the chair.’ He took another glance out of the window. ‘I’m only here because of Lethbridge. That man is a keeper of secrets. Can’t get him to shut up about Socrates, but whatever you pour into his ear will not come out of his mouth, not if you ask him to keep silent.’
‘Yes,’ said Monsarrat, ‘he’s trustworthy – in that way, at least. He explained what we’re doing here?’
‘Yes. And as you’re working for the colonel, I very nearly stayed in the mountains. Lethbridge says the man doesn’t know, though.’
‘The colonel will not be informed of this meeting, or your location,’ said Monsarrat. ‘In any case, you may be worrying for nothing – Duchamp is not aware you are not simply visiting your sister.’
‘Oh, he’s aware. That much I guarantee you. Lethbridge agreed to do me a great service – I asked him to go to my cottage in The Rocks today, see if everything was secure or if anyone odd was hanging about.’
‘And what did he find?’
‘A mess,’ said Gleeson. ‘Door hanging off the hinges. Furniture overturned. Someone had taken a knife to my armchair, and my mattress. And the sideboard had been taken to pieces – the drawers pulled out, torn apart.’ He turned to Mrs Mulrooney. ‘My mother gave me that sideboard, missus.’
‘I’m sure she’d care far more about your safety than that of the sideboard,’ Mrs Mulrooney said.
‘It doesn’t matter, and I doubt I’ll be going back there.’
‘Why not?’ asked Monsarrat. ‘When this is over?’
‘It may not ever be over,’ said Gleeson. ‘If certain secrets remain that way, the colonel will never stop looking for me. And if they come out – this administration is not likely to reward me by allowing me to resume my post.’
‘When you speak of secrets …?’ asked Monsarrat.
‘Those which Henry Hallward uncovered. Those which, as night follows day, he was killed for.’
‘We believe that the young copyboy, Peter, has been taken perhaps because someone thinks he has Hallward’s final story,’ Mrs Mulrooney said.
‘It would make sense,’ Gleeson said. ‘Peter was on his way to collect the story when Hallward was shot. But they are wasting their time.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because that boy doesn’t have the story. I do.’
He stood, reached underneath the mattress, extracted some papers and spread them on the table. He seemed unwilling to dislodge Mrs Mulrooney from her chair, so he kneeled beside her as they both scanned them.
This newspaper has uncovered a conspiracy so vile, and so vast, that it threatens the soul of the colony. Regular readers will know that this newspaper has often brought to light instances of nepotism, favouritism and patronage. Many of these surround the governor’s principal private secretary, Colonel Edward Duchamp.
What they will not be aware of, as very few people are, is that this largesse extends to exclusive contracts for the transport of grain from the interior to Sydney to a company owned by Colonel Duchamp. This means the colonel will profit from every bite of bread eaten in this town.
Lest we be accused of an undue focus on the governor’s staff, we beg to note that his generosity extends beyond those who work for him. Mr Gerald Mobbs, editor and proprietor of the Colonial Flyer, has recently found himself enriched by the gift of a property opposite the gaol from whence this article is being written. The previous owner of the property? Albert Bancroft, the colonel’s great friend, his second in at least one duel. We also have it on good authority that Mr Mobbs’s company is about to be granted the exclusive contract for government printing.
The governor is no friend of the press, you may say, especially if you learned in these pages that he was considering a tax on newspapers and a licensing regime that would limit our ability to report the truth. So why would he be extending such kindness to one of the town’s two newspaper proprietors?
Those of you who have lived in Sydney for any length of time, or recall it before the foundation of the Chronicle, know that in its early years the Flyer was simply an unabashed mouthpiece for the government. Its contents were limited to government announcements, reports on courts and crops and weather. But there was no criticism, no investigation, no opinion. The newspaper simply printed what the government wanted it to.
I opened the Chronicle because I had trouble believing the government was perfect – and because history has told us that those administrations which try to present themselves as the most virtuous are, quite often, the least. Since then, of course, my suspicions have been confirmed many times over. The reporting in these pages has met with the approval of many in Sydney, to the extent that the Flyer had to take a more independent stance in order not to lose all of its readers, because who would pay to be lied to?
But this did not suit Mr Mobbs. He yearned for the time when he could pour platitudes and lies onto the page, spread them out like butter on bread, and charge for them. And the administration longed for the days, banished under the previous governor, when those in government chose what facts were presented to the public, when those who contributed to the colony through hard work and noble endeavour were rewarded with pap. Of course, that tyranny of information left many hungry, and not everyone believed they were receiving the truth about their government, but they had no recourse, no source of truth.
We are now on the cusp of returning to those grim days. Why? Because a conspiracy exists between Mr Gerald Mobbs, Colonel Edward Duchamp and his sister Miss Henrietta Duchamp, to bring about the destruction of the Chronicle – and, with it, any hope of appropriate scrutiny on the actions of the administration.
As I previously mentioned, I am writing this article from prison, and will this very day face court on a charge of criminal libel over my exposure of the governor’s grants to his toady in chief. So, a reader might ask, do I not have an interest in denigrating both my competitor and the administration that continually arrests me? Can anything I write be trusted, particularly an accusation of this nature?
But proof exists, in the form of letters between Mobbs and Duchamp, intercepted by me and published in full in these pages. It is my fervent hope that thanks to these disclosures, I will leave prison and step into a colony where the rights of all are respected, and where those whose only aim is to fearlessly report the facts are not continually incarcerated for doing so.
Monsarrat had not realised he had been gaping, until he felt the dryness inside his mouth. ‘This is … This is …’
‘Astounding,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.
‘And dangerous,’ said Gleeson.
‘How did it come to be in your possession?’ asked Monsarrat.
‘I tucked it into my shirt as soon he had finished writing it. My deputy at the gaol, Crowdy, was not nearly so well disposed towards Mr Hallward. Crowdy could not be allowed to see it, even though he knew Hallward and I had what we will call “an arrangement”.’
‘And this arrangement included access to paper and ink, and the ability to get documents out of the gaol?’
‘Yes. Among other comforts, which had very little bearing on his ability to write a story or otherwise.’
‘Did anyone come looking for the story?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Gleeson. ‘Hallward told me a lad was to collect the story, but I didn’t know when he’d arrive, and even if he had come he wouldn’t have been given it. I was at sixes and sevens after the shoot
ing, and I felt I had no choice but to take it with me. When I read it, I ran.’
‘Why?’
‘They would be sure to find out. Crowdy would tell them I was helping Hallward. He’s been wanting to be rid of me for years, says I’m too kind to certain of the prisoners. He would be only too happy to let them know I was taking money from a prisoner in exchange for favours. The fact that it was that prisoner – well, they would assume I knew what the story said. And mine would be the next head with a ball in it.’
‘Why not hand it in then?’
Gleeson stood and walked over to the window, looking down at the coachman. He turned back into the room. ‘Still no one there, thank God,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t think much of my principles, Mr Monsarrat – taking bribes from a prisoner and so on.’
‘Your principles aren’t the ones at issue here, Mr Gleeson.’
‘It might surprise you to know,’ he said, ‘but I believed in Hallward. In what he was doing. Yes, I was happy to profit from him. The risks I took deserved some compensation. But nothing could induce me to take those risks in the first place if I did not think that a rot was growing, and that Hallward was able to expose it, perhaps fix it. I would never have handed in those pages, Mr Monsarrat. My friend died for them.’
Monsarrat looked at Gleeson for a moment, and nodded. ‘And those letters he mentioned. The proof.’
‘From what I understand, they are in the custody of a man who was braver than I am – a man who stayed at his post even as I deserted mine. If the governor’s men haven’t got to the letters already, you’ll find them in the possession of Mr Cullen, at the offices of the Chronicle.’
Chapter 22
The coach came to a stop a small distance away from the house opposite the gaol, but the argument within it continued. The windows, thankfully, were closed. There was little wind, and at this time of night no noises to conceal a conversation. A stray, starved dog wandered past, sniffed at the coach wheels and then scuttled away when the horse snorted.
‘It is too dangerous!’ said Monsarrat. ‘Henrietta may already be aware that you are suspicious.’
‘Mr Monsarrat, as dangerous as it is for us, it’s even more so for young Peter. His only hope of survival, if he is still alive, is if they believe he has the story and is refusing to tell them. And of course he has a story of his own now, doesn’t he? So we must get to him before anything comes out.’
Monsarrat shook his head. ‘Very well. I’ll go and see what I can find.’
‘You’re never going by yourself, Mr Monsarrat. Without me to look after you, you might be in all sorts of trouble.’
He slapped his hand on his thigh in frustration. ‘You are … the most infuriating … woman in creation.’
‘And I’m … coming … with you.’ She smiled to take the sting out of the mimicry.
‘If I have to lock you in this coach –’
‘I’ll find a way out, and I’ll be on my own for a time until I find you, which will put me in more danger. You cannot prevent me coming with you, and I might get hurt if you try.’
‘All right, then. You must promise me, though – the first sign of trouble, you’ll be back to the coach.’
Again, he offered her his hand to help her down, and again she ignored it and jumped quietly onto the cobbles.
‘I wonder,’ Monsarrat said to McCarthy, ‘if I might ask you a favour.’
‘For an additional fee, you can ask whatever you like.’
‘Can you warn us if you see someone coming?’
McCarthy pulled back on Sally’s reins, and the horse whinnied. ‘How’s that? She never does it otherwise, not unless there’s a trough nearby.’
Monsarrat nodded, handed over a coin, and silently gestured Mrs Mulrooney towards the house. She whispered, ‘There is a lane at the side. Might be wise to start there.’
‘The lane sounds like an excellent idea,’ said Monsarrat. They did their best to stay in the pools of darkness created by the shadows of overhanging branches and walls. It became harder, though, as they approached the house. Lamplight in the windows – somebody was home.
The front windows, as it turned out, were not the only ones lit. In the darkness, they could see light coming from the side of the house, close to the ground.
‘I didn’t notice it there before,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Wouldn’t have noticed it now, if not for the light. A cellar?’
Monsarrat shrank down and crept closer, with Mrs Mulrooney beside him. The light was coming from a grated aperture, too small to be called a window. When he looked in, he had to clasp his hand over his mouth to stop a gasp. He glanced up and saw Mrs Mulrooney, stricken, biting her knuckle in a similar effort to remain silent.
The aperture was the only opening in the room, apart from a closed door. The cellar itself was made of rough stone, with a wooden floor from which a few planks were missing. A dish encrusted with food, hours if not days old, sat by the door. The only furniture was a small, bare mattress. On it was the curled, emaciated form of a boy, facing the wall.
Peter wasn’t moving. He might be alive, Monsarrat thought, but the leftover food by the door clearly wasn’t fresh.
Then the boy stirred, turned around and opened his eyes.
Mrs Mulrooney gasped, and the sound flew into the cellar on the still air. Peter looked up at the window, saw her and started to cry silently.
‘Hush-hush-hush, lamb,’ whispered Mrs Mulrooney. ‘I think that someone is in the house with you. Just nod if that’s true, don’t speak.’
Peter nodded.
‘Have they beaten you, hurt you?’
He shook his head, and Mrs Mulrooney exhaled slowly. ‘But you want to go, and they won’t let you. Because they think you know something, and they don’t believe you when you say you don’t.’
Peter nodded again, and his lower lip began to quiver.
‘Now I want you to be very brave,’ Mrs Mulrooney said. ‘It will be over soon. My friend Mr Monsarrat and I are coming to save you. But we cannot do it now, because someone is there. First thing in the morning, though, we will be back and you will be free. But you have to pretend we were not here, otherwise they might take you somewhere else and we won’t be able to find you.’
Peter nodded, but then gasped as the door to his cell began to open. Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney flattened themselves against either side of the window.
They heard footsteps, light ones. They did not dare look, and as it turned out they didn’t need to, because Henrietta had the kind of voice that carried well. ‘Do I hear voices?’
‘Just humming, Miss Duchamp,’ Peter said. His voice was surprisingly steady.
‘Hm. And you have not changed your mind? Decided to be honest?’
‘I am honest.’
There was a silence. ‘You know, don’t you, that we mean you no harm?’ Henrietta said quietly. ‘When this is over, we will find you a position. A good one. The stables of Government House, perhaps? Would you like that?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘But first you need to help us. You can’t possibly understand, a child of your age, what will happen if you don’t. You can’t know anything of revolt. And I do not want you to. I am trying to protect you, everyone, from a future of chaos.’
‘I told you all I know, miss.’
‘So you keep saying. I would like to believe you.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Very well, this is tiresome for both of us. I will give you the rest of the evening to think about it. And I mean truly think about it, Peter. The people who could get hurt. Unrest in the colony. And you – you’re the only one who can do something about it.’
Footsteps sounded again. When Henrietta next spoke, her voice was closer to the window. ‘I want to be your friend, Peter. I want to help you, but you need to help me. I will bring down some soup shortly. And after that, the next time I enter this room, I do hope we’ll have a change of heart.’ A few more footsteps, and the door creaked. ‘Say your prayers now, and get some sleep, there’s a good bo
y.’
After they heard the door closing, Mrs Mulrooney peered in through the window again. She did not dare risk speaking, but gave Peter a reassuring smile.
From the street, a horse whinnied. Mrs Mulrooney grabbed Monsarrat’s arm, dragged him to his feet with surprising strength and motioned towards the back of the house. A proud householder might have created a garden, but here there was only scrubby dirt. No hiding places.
From around the corner, they heard the rustle of footsteps, slowly making their way down the side of the house. Then Henrietta’s voice again, this time closer. ‘Good to see you kneeling, Peter,’ she called out, probably speaking to him through the window. Then more rustling, as Henrietta’s silk gown dragged along the ground.
Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney huddled in the darkest corner of the backyard. He was not at all confident of escaping detection, but there was no better hiding place to be found.
The horse whinnied again, and the footsteps stopped and began to recede. They heard a quiet conversation in the distance.
Eventually, the talking stopped, and they heard what sounded like the front door closing. Monsarrat, uncomfortably crouched in a pool of darkness, made to stand, but Mrs Mulrooney pulled him down. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘She’s crafty.’
Five minutes later, the front door of the house opened again and did not close for some minutes. When it did, Mrs Mulrooney led Monsarrat up the other side of the house, where they could reach their coach without passing the front door. Monsarrat did not wait, this time, for Mrs Mulrooney to ignore his offer of help – he grasped her around the waist and lifted her into the coach, diving in after her.
He rapped on the front window of the coach. ‘The Chronicle,’ he whispered.
Once they had turned the corner and left the gaol behind, together with the house that had become another gaol, Mrs Mulrooney leaned forward and gave Monsarrat a hard rap on the knuckles with her fan. ‘You will not treat me like a sack of potatoes again, Mr Monsarrat. I am perfectly capable of getting into a coach at speed. Do not forget what I have been through, and the resilience it has given me.’