Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  Absolute bedlam in the courtroom. Men surged forward, pushing through the crowd, scrambling over railings and seating to get to Henry Wells. Coins and fruit were thrown at him. Something struck him on the back of the head. One man got as far as the table, screamed “Maggot!” in Henry’s face and took a swing. He only just missed. Knuckles skinned Henry’s chin. The man lost his balance and went tumbling and Henry ran around the table and hid on the other side. Up on the bench, Magistrate MacIntyre pounded his gavel incessantly but the noise and his yelling were drowned out by the uproar as Noone smiled to himself in satisfaction, straightened his suit, and eased himself backward, ready to step down.

  The gunshot brought the room to an abrupt standstill. Vitriol was replaced by screams. From the back of the courtroom Donnaghy marched forward waving his revolver above his head. He came to the front and stood beneath the judge’s bench and brandished it at the crowd, which as one pressed itself toward the back of the room.

  “Any of you cunts wants it there’s a bullet for you here.”

  MacIntyre went on beating his gavel long into the silence. Finally he let it fall still. Chest heaving, flushed and breathless, the man looked ready to expire. It took a long time until he was able to speak again, holding up his hand and wheezing, “That’s enough, Donnaghy. You’ve put a hole in my bloody roof.”

  Eyes upcast to the ceiling. Sure enough: a circle of bright sunshine.

  “Now listen,” MacIntyre panted. “Any more of that horseshit from anyone and I’ll clear this whole damn room. Get out from under that table, Mr. Wells, for God’s sake. Donnaghy, go and stand next to him, anyone comes within two feet you either arrest them or shoot them, I don’t really care. And not another word out of you either, Henry, or you’ll meet the same end.” He took a long breath and flopped back in his chair. “We only have one more witness to hear from then we can all go home. Come on up, Billy, let’s get this bloody thing done.”

  Noone made his way down from the witness box. He and Billy crossed in the aisle. Noone gripped his arm and whispered in his ear, “Your turn now, Billy-boy, don’t go fucking this up,” and as Noone sat down next to Katherine she regarded him coldly then slid one seat farther along.

  Chapter 25

  Inquest

  On leaden feet Billy trudged to the witness box: a thousand-yard shuffle, a thousand-yard stare. Katherine hardly knew him. The stooped shoulders, the bowed head, no longer her husband at all. He gripped the sides of the box as he climbed in, swore his oath so quietly she couldn’t hear him, then sat down and waited, his eyes furtively flicking to her in the crowd.

  “Mr. McBride—” the magistrate began, then corrected himself. “Or is Billy more appropriate, given we’ve known each other so long?”

  It took Billy a while to register the question. “That’s fine,” he said.

  “Good. Now, Billy, I’m sorry for getting you up here, and for putting you through all this, I can see just by looking at you the toll today has had. Only, when someone makes an allegation as serious as this, there’s a process that must be gone through—you understand, I’m sure?”

  Billy nodded.

  “So let’s get right to it, shall we: Were you listening when Chief Inspector Noone gave his evidence just now, concerning the events of your family’s murder and the expedition that followed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you agree with him, as far as you’re able? Was his evidence accurate?”

  A beat before he answered. “It was.”

  MacIntyre shuffled through his papers and held a sheet aloft. “Billy, I have here a written testimony signed by you and your brother, Tommy, dated the nineteenth of December 1885—could you take a look at it please.”

  He handed Billy the statement. A glance, then he gave it back.

  “You recognize that document?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your signature on the bottom there?”

  “It is.”

  “Have you had a chance to reread your testimony before today?”

  “I have.”

  “And do you stand by its contents? Is there anything you’d like to correct?”

  Billy cleared his throat and shifted in his chair and his voice when he spoke was feeble and meek. He was lying, Katherine knew. About all of it. She could see it right there in his face. Usually he tried to disguise his lies with bombast and bluster, most likely because they didn’t bother him, he felt no guilt. This was very different, but he was lying all the same.

  “Only about the number of natives,” Billy said. “At the house, I mean. We thought twelve but probably there was only the four.”

  “So you miscounted?”

  “It was dark, we was scared.”

  “But you are certain that you saw at least some natives fleeing the house, and that your former boy, Joseph, was among them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And these were the same four natives—a woman and three men—that the chief inspector later tracked and attempted to arrest in the foothills of the western ranges, as we have just heard.”

  “That was them, aye.”

  “But they resisted? They attacked you?”

  Billy nodded. “Locke got speared in his shoulder. Just like he said.”

  “Very well. And what about the remainder of the chief inspector’s testimony, about what came next: the altercation that led to the suspects getting shot; your party not going beyond the ranges, never having met the Kurrong tribe, or for that matter Reverend Bean—this is all as you remember it too?”

  “It is.”

  “Sir, please!” Henry Wells could no longer contain himself. Donnaghy snapped to life and raised his revolver like Henry had just let off a grenade. “You are guiding him through this entire testimony. Mr. McBride knows fine well who Reverend Bean is—he admitted as much last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “He came to my hotel room, yes.”

  “Oh, aye?” MacIntyre said, eyebrows raised. “What for?”

  “To discuss the case, of course.”

  MacIntyre turned to Billy. “That right, Billy? You visit this ponce last night?”

  Gravely Billy stared at Henry, stared right through him almost. “I never seen him till this morning when I walked in this courtroom.”

  “It seems you are mistaken, Mr. Wells. Perhaps you are confusing him with another nighttime visitor. For a man like yourself I imagine it can be hard to keep track.”

  Sniggering from the gallery. Henry threw up his hands. Katherine noticed Noone smirk and roll his eyes. But Billy had disappeared last night after dinner and had not come home until late, and there’d been all sorts of messenger boys back and forth these past few days.

  “Just to be clear, then,” MacIntyre continued, once the gallery had settled down, “you did not witness Chief Inspector Noone or his Native Police troopers engage in any other conflict while you were out there, specifically with the Kurrong tribe?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you were with them the whole time, until they came back?”

  “Yes.”

  MacIntyre drew a long breath. “Right, well, I think we’re done here. Thank you, Billy, you can get down.”

  Billy motioned uncertainly to the gallery. MacIntyre nodded and Billy stood, a weight sliding off him, rapidly blinking his eyes. He returned to his seat, Noone angling his legs for Billy to pass, and sat between him and Katherine. Noone patted his thigh kindly. Billy looked utterly lost. He groped for Katherine’s hand but she wouldn’t give it, holding herself tightly, stiff and straight-backed.

  “I don’t see the need for an adjournment,” Magistrate MacIntyre said. “We’ve spent long enough on this nonsense as it is. My task here today is to assess the evidence before me and determine whether there are sufficient grounds for a finding of wrongdoing by Chief Inspector Noone or by any other person or persons in relation to the murders of members of the McBride family and thereafter Aborigines belonging to the Kurrong tribe. Much of
the impetus for this inquiry arose from allegations made by an individual named Reverend Francis Bean, allegations which Mr. Henry Wells assisted in bringing to light. Sadly, Reverend Bean has decided, for reasons unknown, not to appear in court today. That is most regrettable. I have of course read his written testimony, but without the witness here to swear it and to answer questions, I must take what he has said with a pinch of salt. It does not reflect well on the witness that he is unwilling to stand behind his version of events. The reliability of his evidence is therefore significantly compromised in my eyes, particularly when set against the robust rebuttals of Chief Inspector Noone and Mr. McBride. The chief inspector has been willing to appear in person to answer these most grievous of charges, and I am grateful to him for that. Despite Mr. Wells’s spirited attempts to discredit him, I find Chief Inspector Noone’s account most persuasive. He is correct when he notes that the colony today is much changed from how it was only twelve years ago—and mostly for the better, I might add. We all remember the depredations of the Kurrong, how they would kill our livestock, attack our citizens, how they outright refused to lay down their spears. I find it proven that four of these natives did attack and murder Edward, Elizabeth, and Mary McBride—may they rest in peace—and that it was these same four natives, including the boy known as Joseph, whom Chief Inspector Noone did attempt to apprehend near the western ranges a week or so hence. I believe him when he tells us that his patrol was set upon, and that only in defending itself were the four suspects killed. I find it utterly unproven that anything else did occur, and wish to make clear that any implication of violence by Chief Inspector Noone against the Kurrong is an unwarranted smear on the character of one of our finest public servants. He should not have been put through this ignominy, neither should Mr. McBride, and I shall be writing to the colonial secretary in the strongest possible terms, to request a formal apology be issued to both men, for having their valuable time wasted, their reputations jeopardized, and, in Mr. McBride’s case, for having been dragged through what must have been a most trying ordeal. There is not a shred of evidence to support any of the allegations or insinuations made before this court. There are no bodies. There are no witnesses. These are as trumped-up charges as I in all my years have seen. I find that Chief Inspector Noone has committed no wrongdoing, and neither for that matter has Mr. McBride, or indeed anyone else involved at the time. If the police commissioner wishes to take action relating to the inclusion of civilians in a Native Police patrol, then that is a matter for him. My own opinion is that it is water under the bridge. As is this entire episode. The hearing is over. All are free to go. Except, that is, for you, Mr. Wells—Donnaghy, bring him to my chambers right away.”

  The gallery erupted in cheering and clapping that spread in a wave through the lobby to those waiting outside. Hands were shaken, hats were thrown, while at the back of the crowd the native men watching from the alleyway shook their heads in weary resignation and walked away along the street.

  * * *

  Old Jim on the piano, the accordion player pumping his bellows, a beat pounded out on an improvised cask drum. The hotel heaving in revelry: dancing, drinking, singing; a handful of whores circulating, demurely leading their suitors upstairs. They roared each man his own send-off. Ten minutes later, they roared him down again. And part of it all: Noone. A head taller than the mass of bodies leaping to the beat, his face sweat-lathered, his tie loose, his collar open, boots stomping the wooden boards, his dark eyes twinkling in the gathering gloom.

  The door opened. Nobody paid the young man any mind. In Percy walked with his dusty longcoat and rifle that came almost to his chin. He went to the bar, ordered a beer, greedily threw it down. If Horace noticed the cuts on his knuckles, or the bloodstains on his hands and shirtfront, he gave no sign that he had. Percy propped his rifle against the counter rail and slid exhausted onto a barstool. He picked out Noone in the merrymaking; Noone went on dancing but asked a question with his eyes. Percy nodded. Noone smiled. He announced to the crowd that the drinks were on him and, laughing, was carried barward in the surge.

  Chapter 26

  Billy and Katherine McBride

  “Damn it, Katherine, wait!”

  They had traveled in different coaches, one behind the other, each stewing separately on the long ride home. Now Billy chased her up the homestead steps, Katherine running ahead of him, her skirt bunched in her hand. He caught her and grabbed her but she shrugged him off and marched inside, Billy calling, “What the hell is wrong with you? What have I even done?”

  She halted in the atrium and turned on him. “What have you done?” she shouted as Billy advanced along the hall, her voice echoing into the vaulted roof space, filling the entire house. “How can you even ask me that? Can’t you once in your life admit when you’re wrong?”

  Billy reached the atrium but Katherine lunged for the nearest door, the library; she slammed it behind her but it didn’t catch. Billy sighed and doggedly followed, easing open the door to find her standing on the far side of the room, holding herself and looking out of the window, a view of the hillside at the back of the house. The great jagged ridge that like a serrated guillotine had hung over them their whole lives, and the little fenced-off cemetery in which Mary was buried, and where Billy never bothered to pay his respects.

  He ghosted into the room, skimmed a hand over the polished wood of the billiards table, took off his jacket and tie and slung them on the baize. He stood watching her, gripping the side cushion. She had taken her jacket off too—the bare skin of her shoulders and neck. “Katie,” he said softly, noticed the little shiver when she heard. He sighed and went to the cabinet and poured himself a Scotch, glancing at the wall of books above him, spine after leather-bound spine. He doubted he’d read even one.

  “It only makes things worse, you know. There’s no such thing as drinking to forget. Believe me, I have tried.”

  She was talking to the window, her back to him still. “What?” Billy said.

  She turned. “You’re never without a drink. Now I know why.”

  “We won, if you hadn’t noticed. We should be celebrating!”

  “Won?” she scoffed. “I saw you in there, Billy. Guilt was on you like a rash.”

  Billy sipped the Scotch. “Nobody’s guilty—that’s the point.”

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “Didn’t you hear the magistrate?”

  “I did. And I heard you too, lying through your teeth.”

  “I only agreed with what Noone said, it was him that—”

  “It’s always somebody else with you, Billy. Noone, the stableboy, even William—when are you going to take responsibility for what you’ve done?”

  He glared at her over his whiskey. “And what’s that exactly.”

  “You heard the lawyer. Hell, you were there!”

  “So were you.”

  “But I wasn’t, though, was I? All I know is what I was told. And I asked you, remember, on our wedding day. You swore it hadn’t happened like that.”

  Billy blew out dismissively. “Yeah, well, that lawyer’s full of shit.”

  “And still you’re lying.” She stepped closer, away from the window. “You know, all these years I’ve assumed it was pain that tore you up, but it’s not—it’s lies and shame and guilt.”

  Billy poured himself a refill, jaw set, eyes glazed, near-wringing the decanter’s neck. “You’re talking in riddles here. The magistrate just decided: they killed the family, we killed them, we didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “But they didn’t kill them, did they. You never saw any natives at the house.”

  Billy paused. Whiskey dripped from the decanter lip. He set it down and drank with his back to her, his entire body clenched like a fist. “We found Joseph’s gun.”

  “And that was enough for you, was it, to go and murder a hundred Kurrong?”

  “I don’t remember you having such a problem with it at the time.”

  The
accusation stalled her. Stung, she said, “I was only a girl. I had no idea.”

  He started walking, pacing in front of the bookshelves. “And I was even younger than you. Anyway, why are we arguing? The inquest’s over, we won, we can get on with our lives, it makes no difference now.”