Of Gold & Blood Series 2 Books 1 & 4

by Jenny Wheeler

  “Now you don’t have my affairs to worry about, I hope you have a chance to do what you came here for—and that it goes well for you.”

  Once again he had the strange feeling her words were being torn out of some deep place within, a place of pain.

  She twirled the parasol playfully as she regarded the chapel garden, the cloudless sky.

  “Reluctant as I am to return to performing, it seems right now it’s my best option.”

  She gave him one last searching look as if trying to read his mind. He resisted the urge to step forward and grab her arm to stop her leaving. What had he to offer her? She was right, wasn’t she? Their lives were set on different courses, and he’d be wise to accept that and move on.

  Her face softened as if she had caught a yearning in his expression that pleased her, and then she tipped her parasol in a mock salute and walked away.

  Thirty Eight

  The pure notes of some old hymn he didn’t recognize but everyone else seemed to know hung in the chapel air, the sweetness of the children’s voices giving the chant a freshness that made him feel grimy.

  “All glory while the ages run, be to the Father and the Son, who rose from death; the same to thee, O Holy Ghost eternally…”

  Seated in the back pew of the convent chapel, Willoughby Martens watched as choir leader Graysie Castellanos brought her conducting arm to a flowing conclusion. The singers, in simple white cassocks, visibly relaxed as the final notes died away.

  Early evening light streamed through stone-arched windows as Father O’Brien, backlit by towers of altar candles, pronounced a final blessing on the townsfolk gathered for the diocese of St Mary’s annual Praise and Redemption Concert. An exotic smell of incense hung like a comforting cloak over the crowded congregation.

  The final hymn had been stately, but the occasion was anything but. It was a Grass Valley tradition to hold a concert to thank the town for its support of both the school and the orphanage every year before summer recess.

  Local fiddlers and harmonica players had added their merry tunes to the more serious choral music, and they now fiddled everyone out with a medley of folk tunes, a wave of gay sound filling the sacred space as everyone rose, chattering and laughing, and moved next door for refreshments.

  It was one of Father O’Brien’s greatest achievements to have built a church which nestled at the town’s heart and was beloved by many who only came once a year for this celebration. Despite himself, Martens was touched by the occasion’s simple eloquence.

  But that wasn’t why he was here, he reminded himself. Precious time was passing. He needed to fulfil his undertaking to de Vile to sort out the troublesome Castellanos woman or his patron would get restless. And ruthless.

  Funny, he ruminated, how he’d been sick with rage to find Nathan Russell was here messing with his game in California, just like he had spoiled things back in Sydney. Gradually, however, his anger was being channeled into something much more productive.

  Having him here was providing the perfect opportunity to exercise the revenge he’d long craved. He could kill two birds with one stone—get rich, get rid of Nathan Russell, and maybe even get his hands on the girl. He felt a warmth at the base of his stomach that spread up through his chest at that delightful thought.

  Luring Graysie Castellanos down the mine might be the quickest way to do that. The dumb songbird wouldn’t know what she was looking at. He was confident he could spin a convincing yarn to kick her interest. If not, he could frighten her so badly she’d sell for nothing just to be rid of it and him.

  His left foot twitched with a nervy charge he often experienced at high-risk moments like this. The excitement gripped him deep in his belly, and he let out a low, slow breath. There was nothing like the exultant feeling he got chasing down quarry.

  He clasped his hands together to calm himself and rose from his seat. Graysie was slowly making her way down the aisle, stopping every few feet to greet someone or be congratulated on the choir’s performance by others. He waited as she came towards him. He could see her gradually become aware of him as she drew nearer. She stopped a few feet from him.

  “Mr. Martens.” She tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t take you for a man who’d be interested in church or children’s choirs.”

  “Possibly not. But you gave us a very good show. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Are you staying for the refreshments?”

  “Let me escort you in. I thought it might be a good opportunity to follow up on my suggestion about showing you the Ophir at some stage.”

  She pressed her lips together in a grimace. “I’m not sure where I am with that, to be honest. After Willie’s death, I feel at something of a loss. A bit unusual for me.” She gave a wavering smile. “His death has hit me hard.”

  “Really?” Martens searched her face for any sign that she was concealing something but could see nothing but sincere concern. “Why would it worry you? I mean, of course, it’s terrible when a man is struck down like that, but why is it of any note to you personally?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin, suddenly wary. “Nothing in particular. It’s just he seemed a fine man. A knowledgeable one too.”

  They had been making their way very slowly towards the refreshments, but at this remark Martens halted.

  “Knowledgeable? Yes, he was well versed in the mines around here. Anything in particular you were wanting to ask? I might be able to help…”

  She drew back from him and flicked a glance towards the crowd gathered around the refreshment tables.

  “I… I just wanted to ask him about the geology. That’s all.”

  She pursed her lips, and Martens sensed she was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “You talked to him? He didn’t mention anything about a report by Vance Pedersen by any chance?”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw he’d hit a bull’s-eye. She flinched, and color slowly rose from up her neck to her face.

  “Vance Pedersen? Why do you ask?” She turned towards the area where coffee was being dispensed. The crowd had eased as people ahead of them had been served, and she feasted her eyes on a steaming spout of hot tea being poured in cups nearby. Her gaze flicked back to meet his.

  “Oh, someone mentioned that Vance had been working on preparing a report on the Ophir. They speculated it might have been why he was killed. I don’t know—partners falling out or some such. No big deal.”

  Martens let his shoulders fall into a relaxed droop, but inside his nerves were humming. This woman was a terrible liar. She knew about that report. God dammit, she might even have the accursed thing.

  Red hot fury flashed through him. This chit had made a fool of him. Worse yet, de Vile had been right. Watson had passed it on to her before they got to him. He no longer heard the clatter of teacups or smelt the spice of home baking. He was blinded by a consuming rage. He blinked to clear his vision. When he opened his eyes again, Graysie Castellanos was staring at him, her face taut with anxiety.

  “He gave that report to you, didn’t he?” He barked the query, his eyes fixed on her face, searching for minute changes in her stance and expression.

  She shook her head and backed away from him towards the coffee. “No. No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her eyes flicked to the floor, and then she added with a hoarse rush, “And why is it so important to you anyway?”

  He regarded her coldly. She was lovely to look at, but she’d be hopeless at poker. She was too much of an open book. “It’s my job to know things.”

  He planted his feet wide and braced his shoulders, as if he was gearing up for a fight. “That’s what men like Hector de Vile pay for. How do you think they get rich? It’s by learning things that will put them ahead of the market.”

  “And why would Vance’s report—if there was such a report—be of interest? I mean, couldn’t anyone just go in there and write a report?�
�

  She widened her eyes, as if wanting to convince him and herself of her transparency. He smiled. She didn’t fool him.

  “I’m not saying it’s of any particular interest.” He relaxed his stance and took her elbow. “Let me get you a coffee. I’m sure you’re parched, and I’ve been keeping you talking.”

  As they glided the last few feet to the refreshments, he leaned down and said into her ear, “It may be of no interest whatsoever. But Mr. de Vile always wants to know. Then he can be the judge. He likes to quote Benjamin Franklin: ‘An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.’”

  She stopped in front of the coffee and turned towards him, regarding him with a steady, neutral expression. She might not be a good liar herself, but he suspected she picked up on the deceptions of others pretty swiftly, and she wasn’t taken in by him. He didn’t care. He had to rethink his whole approach to Miss Graysie Castellanos.

  Now that he was confident she had the Vance report, he had to find a way to get his hands on it. Until he’d done that, he needed to keep her alive—and he’d have to back off on the rogue operations for a while. If she had the report then the Russells certainly now knew about the encroachment. Yes he’d back off for now. But after he’d got hold of it? That was a very different story.

  Thirty Nine

  Tuesday, July 14

  Nathan stood in the dark, narrow chamber and gazed in awe at the greenstone wall in front of him. It disappeared into the shaft beyond the reach of the flickering light from the candles he and Sebastian held in hooked holders, but he could see from the faint reflected sheen of its mirrored surface that it stretched a long way back.

  So this was the greenstone dyke that Vance Pedersen’s report had described as channelling one of the richest Ophir ore shoots. It shone like flowing water, polished and smooth, the color variations like ripples over stone.

  At its front edge it must have spanned nearly thirty feet, a flying buttress heralding riches buried deep underground. For a moment his heart was in his throat at its sheer beauty—and the certain knowledge that Vance’s information had been accurate.

  Nathan had been to see Lisette to confirm she knew nothing about any mining in the Ruby. They’d set a watch on the padlocked entries to both mines, but in the few days they’d been in place, all had been quiet, no more gold stolen. He wondered if the perpetrators had got wind that they’d been exposed and were lying low.

  What with Willie’s funeral and Seb’s normal law-making duties, today was the first opportunity they’d had to prise open the padlock and take a look underground.

  Common mining wisdom had it that one of the most valuable attributes of men like Willie and Vance was their ability to remember the detailed appearance of old working faces and to interpret the structural subtleties of diverging walls.

  Muted rock face markings could indicate the continuation of a rich vein in a different direction or an ore shoot resurfacing some distance away after a barren section. An astute engineer could read the rocks and accurately assess the value of the gold likely to be extracted—saving the mine owners the expense and delay of doing a full survey.

  Nathan had learned a lot about rock stratification at home, where the Victorian mines had a lot of similarities to California, but you didn’t really need to be an expert to see what was right in front of your eyes.

  Evidence of neglect lay around them in the rusted tools that had been discarded at the end of a shift. In one section a faint scent of decayed flesh lingered around the arched rib cage of a mule that had never made it back up to daylight.

  The shaft floor was hard rock packed to a level surface to make it easy for the mule transports pulling ore, but after years of disuse, the air tasted stale.

  The farther in they ventured, the warmer the air became, until Nathan felt uncomfortably hot in his heavy canvas trousers. They’d been moving steadily for ten or fifteen minutes when they came to a widened junction where two chambers met at a cavernous crossroad; water seeped through the heavily braced pine log roof, and the ground was wet and boggy underfoot.

  Nathan nodded towards the swampy ground. “When the pumps are going, this would be a lot drier, but with nothing doing for a few years…”

  Seb held his light aloft and turned in a slow circle, his gaze searching the black void around them.

  “Take a look over there.” He gestured with his lamp. “Those timbers are quite new. Looks like they’ve been put in in the last few months. And it’s coming in from the north, where the Ruby workings are. I’d say we’ve located the rogue operation right here.” He halted again and looked up. “Hear that?”

  Nathan hesitated. Weird creaks that sounded like human moans sounded overhead.

  “That talking noise?” Nathan knew miners got superstitious about the strange sounds. “That’s the mine complaining. It usually only happens when new shafts are put in. They shift a bit before they subside and settle down.

  He moved towards the source of the noise and lifted his lamp to see if there was any evidence of rock shifts or cave ins. “You’ve got the greatest risk of rock bursts happening a few days after that kind of subterranean noise.”

  “Rock bursts?” Seb said. “Great. We get rock bursts down here? Wouldn’t want to miss out on that.”

  Nathan laughed at his brother’s dry humor. “They’re not common. It particularly happens when new shafts are put in and the rock comes under new pressures. Goes off with a boom and throws rock everywhere.

  “Usually the first explosion isn’t the problem. There’s more danger from the flow of rock debris that often follows. Miners have been completely buried standing up.” The light jiggled as he swept his hand around the space.

  “It’s just like Vance reported. This new drift runs at an angle to exit out into the Ruby. As he suggested, it’s likely whoever owns Ruby—or has connections with it—has poached on the Ophir through the back door.”

  “And apart from Lisette, do we know who owns the Ruby?” asked Seb. “Any idea?”

  “Used to be a consortium of French men. Lisette’s husband bought most of the others out. They were hopeless organizers, and they moved on to fresh claims. But since ownership was reduced to just Lisette and Weavers—well who knows what Weavers did with his shares before his throat was ripped out.”

  As they were talking, the unsettling moaning noises continued. They were starting to make Nathan jumpy, and he was about to suggest they should get out while they still could when his ear caught a faint tread echoing off the main walls of the shaft.

  Someone was descending the ladder at the entrance to the railhead where the wagons of ore were delivered.

  He put his hand to his lips. “Listen!” he whispered to Seb.

  Seb nodded. He’d also picked up the distinct sound of someone coming quickly down the iron ladder. It would be too dangerous to try and go back the way they had come. They would have to use another exit.

  “We can’t use the Ruby tunnel—we don’t know where it ends. Might be right in their offices, and I don’t fancy that too much,” Seb said in a low voice, stepping closer to him. “We’d best try and make for Wolf Creek. You lead, and I’ll follow to protect your back.”

  He turned to face down the main shaft and noticed their candles had burned down more than half their length. They started down the tunnel towards the creek at a steady pace.

  Nathan gauged he was about ten feet ahead of Seb when he was hit in the back by a blast of hot air so forceful that it threw him off balance. His ears rang with a series of percussive booms. Grovelling on his knees, his eyes were blinded by suffocating dust.

  Cup-sized rock fragments showered down, hitting him on the face and shoulders; he felt blood trickle down above his left eye.

  The candle holder had fallen and was snuffed out. He scrambled to his feet and turned in a slow circle, trying to orientate himself. Where should he start looking for Seb?

  “Seb!” he yelled hoarsely, the taste of grit in his mouth. “Where are
you? Are you okay?”

  The only answering sound was a shushing from showering rock particles that kept falling, covering his feet, his ankles.

  “Seb! Wake up, man.”

  In the gloom, it was impossible to see more than an inch or two ahead of him.

  He turned back in the direction he thought he had come from, but the dust was so dense he wasn’t sure he’d got it right. Then another sound penetrated through the rattle of falling rocks: the sound of a man’s tread on the hard rock surface and a hunting dog’s baying bounced off the tunnel walls with an eerie reverberation.

  The piercing howls sent shivers up his spine. From the echoes, the creature was coming towards them down the tunnel at a fast clip. He was standing in a dust cloud, hardly able to see his hand in front of his face, let alone an attacking mongrel.

  He put his hands out in front of him like a child playing Blind Man’s Bluff and shuffled in a direction he hoped would give him shelter. As he groped forward, the boom of a revolver shot reverberated close to him, and an animal screamed.

  He stopped in his tracks and called again. “Seb. Are you there?”

  This time he heard a rusty-voiced response. “Over here.”

  He stumbled towards the sound. Seb was maintaining a low humming noise to guide Nathan to him. His foot striking a warm fleshy object told Nathan he’d found him, and he leaned over his brother’s prone form.

  “Can you move? Is it safe for me to lift you?”

  Seb chortled like a deep drain. “Safer than not lifting me,” he said, holding up an arm.

  “Big rock hit one leg. I’ll hold the gun in the other hand and keep us covered.”

  Seb raised his upper body from the mine floor and Nathan locked both arms around him in a chest hold and dragged him carefully backwards.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that they’d chanced upon a junction point. The rail tracks stopped, but tunnels led off in two directions. A gust of fresh air stirred the dust particles—indicating that the tunnel exited at ground level.