by Paul Howarth
All this misery would be worth it. His very own Trials of Hercules.
What with the snoring and the noise from downstairs and the chatter of his own thoughts, Henry didn’t hear the click of the door along the hall. He’d got his bearings muddled: the snoring wasn’t coming from Reverend Bean’s room. Instead the reverend had been pacing, waiting for Henry to fall asleep, figured surely he’d have dropped off by now. He closed the door gently, padded barefoot down the stairs. He was wearing only his trousers, and there was an uproar when people saw him (Henry smothering himself with his pillow at the sudden surge of noise), someone yelling was this shitty burlesque? Behind the bar Horace folded his arms until from a small slit in his waistband Reverend Bean teased out a crumpled banknote. He smoothed it on the counter and Horace reached down for a glass.
“What’ll it be?” the publican asked him.
“Just give me the bottle,” Reverend Bean said.
* * *
He couldn’t be roused the next morning. Henry rattled the handle and banged on the door but heard coming from inside Reverend Bean’s room the kind of choked apneic snoring only brought on by grog. Downstairs he thundered, found Horace clearing the bar, and snapped at him, “I told you no alcohol! He’s three sheets to the wind up there!”
Horace straightened. “There a problem?”
“I warned you yesterday. Said explicitly not to serve him a drink.”
“We’re a hotel, mate. Serving drinks is what we do.”
“But . . . he doesn’t even have any money.”
“Had plenty on him last night.”
This stalled Henry. It didn’t take him long. All this time together, sharing train carriages and sleeper berths . . . of course he had, the sneaky bastard. His anger deflated, he felt a fool. “Stolen from me, no doubt.”
“None of my business where he got it.”
“Please, don’t indulge him anymore. I assume you know why we’re here?”
“Word gets round.”
“Then you know how important it is I have him dry tomorrow.”
“I don’t give a shit either way, mate. I just want to get paid.”
Horace was making eyes at Henry and finally he caught on. He peeled a note from his money clip and handed it over. “So, we have an understanding?”
“If you like.”
“Good, now, perhaps you can help me: I’ll find Magistrate Spencer MacIntyre at the courthouse, I assume?”
Horace chuckled. “If he bothers going in.”
“And if not?”
“The big house round the back there. Biggest one there is.”
“I’m obliged to you. And what about two brothers named McBride?”
A beat before Horace answered: “Never heard of them.”
“Really? Two young boys, their parents were killed?”
Horace shook his head, frowning.
“Oh, I see,” Henry said brightly, warming to the game. He peeled off another note from his money clip but Horace raised a hand.
“I never heard of them, I just told you. Look, I’d best be getting on.”
The barber gave him the same answer, and the waitress in the roadhouse café; people ignored his greetings but their eyes followed him constantly around town. In the tailor’s he asked the proprietor how long he’d lived in Bewley and the old man told him proudly, “All my life. I was born in that back room.” But when he brought up the subject of the McBride murders the man’s lips tightened and he shook his head. Henry didn’t push it. Clearly this was how it was going to be. For no good reason he could put his finger on, he had assumed the locals would welcome this inquest, that they’d be grateful he had come. Uncovering a hidden tragedy, rooting out injustice in their town. The idea now seemed ridiculous. At least it wasn’t a jury trial.
He banged on the doors of the courthouse and stood waiting in the oppressive sun—not yet ten o’clock and already the heat was feverish and close. He dabbed his neck, knocked again, people brazenly watching from the street. Henry smiled and nodded; dumbly, they simply stared. They were a different breed out here, he was realizing. Simple-minded, truculent, docile. He had a new appreciation for Brisbane. It was the height of sophistication compared to this.
Nobody answered at the courthouse, so he followed an alleyway around back and on a large plot behind the main street found the magistrate’s house: an elegant, raised, white residence in the classic Queenslander style, not too dissimilar to his own. He climbed the steps and rang the handbell. Shortly, a maid arrived.
“Yes, good morning. Magistrate MacIntyre please.”
Laughter washed through from inside. Two men, it sounded like. The maid nodded and went back there and Henry heard one of them ask irritably for his name. Of course she couldn’t tell him—he’d not volunteered it and she hadn’t asked—and for the first time that morning Henry felt a small flush of progress. He might need to be cannier if he was going to get anywhere here. The speaker excused himself. There was a valise on the floor inside the doorway, good leather, monogrammed. The magistrate must have been entertaining a guest. Heavy footsteps along the hallway, then the door was wrenched open and a great walrus of a man was standing before him: flush-faced, wild-haired, bloodshot eyes, wearing a fine gray morning suit expertly tailored to his bulk. He scowled at Henry and barked, “Yes? Who are you?”
“Henry Wells, sir, out from Brisbane, for the inquest.”
MacIntyre shook his hand reluctantly. “So you’re the lawyer,” he said.
“Indeed. A pleasure, I am sure.”
“Are you now. Well, you’re early. Hearing’s not till tomorrow.”
He went to close the door but Henry blocked the way. “I thought it might be helpful for us to talk before then.”
“What about?”
“Everything. You received the reverend’s testimony, I take it?”
“Aye, only yesterday mind you.”
“I mailed it well before we left.”
“Things move slower out here, Mr. Wells, if you haven’t noticed.”
“My apologies. And my telegrams? You never replied.”
“No, well, I’m a busy man. Until tomorrow then.”
“Magistrate, please. I am at something of a loss here. There are significant gaps in my understanding of this case, matters to which the reverend cannot testify. The McBride killings, for example—I found barely any mention in the press.”
“A private matter. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Again he tried to close the door and again Henry stopped him, wedging his foot against the sill. MacIntyre glared at him.
“You’re hardly helping yourself here.”
“Sir, I have every right to—”
“You have the right to fuck-all is the truth of it. What d’you think this is?”
“The colonial secretary has authorized my full participation in—”
“Yes, yes, I got that message too. But this is my inquest, my town. As far as I’m concerned you are an observer like anyone else. And a chaperone for the witness, of course. I don’t know what your agenda is here, Mr. Wells, why you are dredging this all back up, but if I were you I would watch my step.”
“My agenda? To uncover the truth, surely no different from yours?”
A stillness came over the magistrate. He stepped forward and backed Henry out of the door, his little eyes burning, so close now Henry could smell his cologne, thick and woody and stale, and began jabbing a fat finger in his chest.
“I’ve made myself clear on the subject. Now get off my bloody porch.”
He fared little better with his questions around town: nobody would talk about the Kurrong people, or what had happened to the McBrides, at most an expression of sympathy, a remorseful head-shake, before they clammed up or ushered him back outside. He didn’t have to introduce himself. They all knew who he was, and what he wanted—he had the distinct impression folks had been warned off, and in the general store the little German shopkeeper all but admitted as much. After shaking
hands with Henry and trying to sell him some cheese, Spruhl told him, “Billy McBride is very important man these days. Very dangerous friends.”
So that’s what was going on here. They weren’t just reluctant, but afraid.
The doctor was at least more civil, eager for news from Brisbane, grateful for the company of another educated man, then when Henry began asking questions he sighed and his eyes glazed. “A terrible business, all that, it really was. I still wish I could have done more to help.” He knew few of the details but did at least provide an address for Billy McBride: Broken Ridge cattle station, a few hours northwest of town. Henry excused himself and ran to the livery stables, where a coachman and stablehand sat smoking on stools in the stinking, hay-strewn barn. Panting, Henry asked about a ride up there. “Coach ain’t running,” the driver said.
Henry looked at the carriage standing ready on its chocks and the team of horses feeding in the stalls. “I’ll pay you double fare,” Henry offered. “Please.”
“I just told ye. It ain’t running.”
“Triple then,” he said, pointing. “The thing’s right there!”
“Bloke really wants to get up to Broken Ridge,” the stableman said.
“Don’t blame him, Jonesy. Nice country out that way.”
“Aye, nice country. Nice people too.”
The stableman slid his hands into his coveralls and spat messily on the ground, and Henry sighed at the sheer hopelessness of it all. He’d been so naive. In his mind he’d imagined extracting confessions from reluctant witnesses, maybe even visiting the crater with Reverend Bean. Instead, nobody would talk to him and Reverend Bean lay drunk in his bed, the crater was weeks away, and Henry couldn’t even manage to get himself up to Broken Ridge. He could try to walk, he supposed, but had no stomach for it. Heading out into that bush alone could be a death sentence. He had underestimated everything. Misread the entire situation. Meaning tomorrow he’d be walking into that courtroom with no more than he already had, plus a fire in his belly and a refusal to be cowed. It didn’t feel like much but would have to be enough. He’d won other cases with less.
Through the dusty town he wandered, the sun like a blade in his back, one end to the other, toward that elusive west. “You lost, mate?” someone heckled. “Brissie’s that way!” another yelled, ripples of laughter trailing him along the street. He walked past Song’s Hardware Store, where a slender young woman swept her porch with a broom, then stood at the very fringe of Bewley, looking over a country as hostile and bleak as anything on this earth. Miles of barren scrubland, that angry bloodred soil, knotty tangles of weed and grass and the arthritic skeletons of dead trees. It awed him and terrified him and made him feel very alone. He shouldn’t be out here. This was no place for a man like him. He thought of Jonathan, back in Brisbane, the cozy comfort of his little flat, and even of Laura and the children, their loyalty and affection, their familiar presence in his life, and wished for home.
Along the track he drifted, toward the native camps, drawn by the outline of people moving and the smoke from cooking fires. He peered into the humpies from the safety of the road, hesitantly waved; they froze when they saw him, some hid.
“Please,” Henry called, his hand extended, “I’m a lawyer, here for the inquest. I only wondered if I could talk a moment, about the Kurrong, about—”
“Fuck off with you. You bastards are all the same.”
The bearded old man came at him through the fire smoke, his stick swinging wildly, beating Henry back toward the road. Fending off the blows, Henry retreated, saying, “No, please, I can help, but I need to know what happened.”
“They know,” the old man shouted, pointing his stick at the town. “All them bastards know—we don’t want your help here.” He shouldered the stick like a rifle, pointed it at Henry and, his damp eyes burning, mimicked the recoil: bang, bang, bang. Henry shuddered. The old man said, “What d’you reckon bloody happened to ’em, they just fucked off on their own?”
His stare went right through Henry. Utter fury in his face. Henry edged away, along the road, back in the direction of town, the old man watching him go. “Ask Billy McBride if you’re that keen,” he yelled after him. “He knows what he done.”
Reverend Bean was awake when Henry got back to the hotel, and for the rest of the day Henry busied himself with the task of ironing him out straight. A haircut and shave at the barber, his suit bought and fitted, going over his testimony again. They shared a carafe of wine over dinner, to calm both their nerves, but when they retired to bed that evening Henry made the reverend hand over his room key and locked him in from the outside. “It’ll all be over tomorrow,” Henry assured him, through the doorjamb. “See you in the morning, Francis. Get some rest. Sleep well.”
* * *
Dead of night a noise woke him: Henry Wells snatched open his eyes. He lay listening to the silence, the yips and howls from outside, and realized with a start he wasn’t alone. He could hear breathing. The whisper of clothes. He lifted his head and saw a figure in the armchair at the foot of his bed, guessed it was Reverend Bean before remembering he had locked him in; he thought he’d locked himself in too. The figure shifted slightly. Only a shape in the darkness: tall, broad shoulders, no hat. His leg was jigging frantically and he was wringing something in his lap. Henry pushed himself up to sitting, leaned against the iron headboard, and for a moment the two of them sat like that, watching each other in the scant moonlight.
“Is it money you’re after?” the stranger asked him. “Is that what this is about?”
“Money? What? Who are you?”
“You know who I am, you bastard. Been asking after me all over town. Don’t do nothing stupid now.” And he waved the revolver he was holding like a flag.
“Mr. McBride? Billy McBride?”
“Answer the bloody question.”
“My name, sir, is Henry Wells and I’m a lawyer out from—”
“What I asked is why are you here?”
“For the inquest, tomorrow, when we shall—”
Billy lunged to the bedside and leveled the revolver at Henry’s head. A glimpse of him in a bar of moonlight, his face twisted and snarling, dark hair and a short dark beard, before Henry clamped his eyes shut and hardly dared to breathe.
“I should shoot you and be done with it. End this circus right now.”
“No, please, wait. I am here because . . . because a witness came to see me, about the Kurrong people. The colonial secretary ordered an inquest, and for me to come out—that is all, I swear.”
“That was twelve bloody years ago. What you raking it all up for now?”
“I know, but the law demands . . . please, could you lower the gun?”
Footsteps, and Henry cracked open an eye. Billy returned to the armchair, hooked an ankle over his knee, lit a cigarette and exhaled. He sat there smoking, hurried little drags, while Henry trembled faintly in his bed.
“Who’s the witness?” Billy asked finally.
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Would I be asking if they had?”
“I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say.”
“If you like, I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap, see if you’re at liberty then.”
“Reverend Francis Bean. He was a missionary. He met you all out there.”
It took Billy a moment to register, then: “The priest?”
“Yes, exactly. He says he saw the most terrible things.”
Billy blew out smoke incredulously, crushed the cigarette on the floor. “That’s who’s behind all this? That fucking choirboy? Twelve years after the fact?”
“He remembers it all exactly.”
“He never saw a thing!”
“He went back, saw the crater, what you did.”
Billy unfolded his legs and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wagging the barrel of the revolver at Henry Wells. “How about I tell you what I saw, shall I? Is that what you’re wanting, to hear me confess? All right, listen up: me and
my little brother, sixteen and fourteen years old, go out swimming then come home and the whole family’s been shot, bastards even ran through the dogs. Our daddy’s got three holes blown in him front to back, Ma’s had half her head took off, our little sister Mary’s bleeding out under the bed. Now, how’s that for a story? What’s your priest have to say about that?”
“I’m truly sorry for what happened to your family. But they should have held a proper inquest at the time, established for certain what occurred that day.”
“I just told you what fucking occurred. I was there.”
“But you were children, and it seems to me others may have used your tragedy to commit yet further crimes. In your family’s name, no less. Am I right?”
“Catching the killers was a crime in your eyes?”
“Of course not. But what about the others? A hundred, I heard?”
Billy straightened and shifted, then jumped up from the chair. He paced the length of the room then back again, the revolver swinging in his hand, muttering, “You can’t even prove nothing. You’ve no idea what went on.”
“I believe I do. And that I can.”