Ghost Gum Valley (56 page)

Edwin gestured wearily at the newspaper. ‘I'm as stunned as you are. I only just read it myself. Our friend was murdered.'

‘Murdered? Who the Hell by?'

‘Assailants unknown. There's a full account on the next page. I haven't read all the details. I came here straight away to tell you.'

Marmaduke scanned the coverage of the murder. ‘It's all here. The police report. Dr Bland's autopsy, everything. Rupert went missing on Sunday. Searchers found his body later that day. Shot dead at point-blank range. Bloody cowards! The man had simply been riding around his own estate as he did every Sunday afternoon. I've been there. Waratah Waters covers several thousand acres around Cooks River. Wild country bordering on the marshes.'

‘Are there any clues as to who murdered him?'

‘Marmaduke stabbed his finger at a paragraph. ‘Yeah. It says,
Several refractory characters had been sent to iron-gangs for offences committed in Mr Grantham's service...one had been heard to vow revenge. Some of these men are said to have absconded from the Government iron-gangs and are now in the bush
. Bolters!' Marmaduke put down the newspaper. ‘It was murder all right. Poor bastard!'

‘That strongly suggests it was no random killing,' Edwin said cautiously.

‘The odds are against it, mate. Everyone knew where to find him. Rupert was brilliant and powerful but we know he attracted enemies as well as friends in high places. Maybe his murderers aren't just absconders “in the bush” who wanted to take revenge on him. Maybe he was set up by powerful men who wanted him dead. They could have manipulated bolters to assassinate him. To do the job for them!'

Edwin paused to examine the idea. ‘You could well be right. But if there was a mastermind behind his murder I trust it will come out at the trial. How many men are they searching for?'

‘It says three sets of footprints were traced to George's River where they appeared to cross over to that known haunt of bushrangers, the
Seven Mile Brush. They also found two trees with marks of shot. It sounds as if the mongrels used it for target practice – planning to kill the poor bastard.'

Edwin reminded him that they must soon depart.

Marmaduke pulled a dark suit from the wardrobe and began changing. ‘I hate to say this, Edwin, but it seems a real paradox. In public Rupert fought brilliantly for the rights of Emancipists yet it's said he was responsible for some of his own convicts being flogged and sent to iron-gangs.'

Edwin eyed him speculatively. ‘Human beings are complex creatures, Marmaduke. Perhaps we didn't know Rupert Grantham as well as we thought.'

‘I dined with him at Waratah Waters. He sent Isabel a wedding present. He was great company, had a fund of wild stories and seemed to keep tabs on everyone in the Colony. Knew where all the Colonial bodies were buried.' Marmaduke winced. ‘Dammit, I could have phrased that better.'

‘It's true there are many powerful men who had cause to want him silenced. But I believe in judging people as I find them. You liked Rupert Grantham and he liked you.'

‘Yeah. We had a fair bit in common. Wine, horses, raving on about the inequalities under the law. Both of us determined bachelors. Both with a history of duelling scandals.'

‘Rupert boasted that was
one
reason he wasn't welcome at Government House.'

Marmaduke was stopped by a thought. ‘Hell. Only last week Rupert sent me a note, inviting me to visit his estate.
Last Sunday.
If I'd been free that day I'd have been riding with him in the bush when he was murdered!' Marmaduke thumped the table in frustration. ‘Christ! If only I had been there. At least there'd have been two of us to fight the cowardly mongrels who killed him. Rupert wasn't armed. I'm
always
armed!'

Edwin rose. ‘Well, you can't go to a funeral bearing firearms. We can do nothing for our friend now, except honour his memory. It's near nine o'clock. We must depart now if we want to escort his funeral cortege to the burial ground.'

Marmaduke was already out the door to organise their horses.

Dressed in black, crepe armbands on the sleeves of their frock-coats and crepe streamers tied around their top hats, Marmaduke and Edwin set out to join the carriages that were headed for Rupert Grantham's estate to accompany his body to its final resting place.

They passed a bank that was closed for the day out of respect for his funeral.

Among the mourners they recognised judges, politicians, members of the legal fraternity and newspaper editors.

Edwin said quietly. ‘I wonder how many of these men were Rupert's friends?'

‘Yeah. And how many of them were his enemies?'

Chapter 39

Spring had come early, flooding Bloodwood Hall's garden, orchard and glasshouse with a cornucopia of fruit and flowers. In Isabel's eyes they were a virile marriage between exotic natives and traditional English species that bloomed larger and more abundantly in Garnet Gamble's Eden than she had seen them growing at home. The isolated world of the estate looked tranquil but Isabel knew it was an illusion. Nothing would ever be the same again.

During Marmaduke's absence there had only been a second short message. Written in his wildly flamboyant hand and dated three days earlier, it said more about Barnett Levey's production of
Richard III
than any of the developments in Marmaduke's life but he promised all would be revealed on his return. The tone was lighthearted except for the postscript written in black ink indicating it was dashed off a day later.

Our whole world has changed forever. Do not under any conditions leave
Bloodwood Hall. That's an order, soldier!

For two days those words had lingered in Isabel's mind, her growing sense of alarm fuelled by wild rumours fanning out from the village that a prominent Sydney landowner had gone missing under mysterious circumstances.

Isabel was sitting on the terrace re-reading Marmaduke's note when she saw the assigned lad galloping up the carriageway and hurried down the steps to meet him. His face was shining with perspiration and his eyes signalled the importance of the news he brought. Davey was illiterate but, unlike others, his word could be relied upon.

‘They done him in, missus,' he said as he handed across his swag of mail and newspapers. ‘It's all in here.'

Isabel felt her knees buckle. ‘Who, for God's sake?'

She seized the copy of the
Sydney Herald
dated two days earlier. It confirmed the truth of Marmaduke's warning in columns full of lurid detail. The unthinkable had happened. One of the most powerful men in the Colony had been assassinated.

She ran to the library, where Garnet was seated alone at his desk.

‘Forgive me, Garnet, I know you prefer Rhys to cull the newspapers before you read them but this can't wait.'

She read out the news to Garnet in the absence of his secretary, trying to gauge his reaction. There was none in evidence. At the end she faltered, out of breath.

‘Do you see, Garnet? If a powerful man like Rupert Grantham can be assassinated on his own estate, none of us are safe any more!'

Garnet patted her hand in reassurance. ‘No reason to concern yourself, m'dear. That Grantham bloke had many enemies in high places. No one was safe from his pen. He even went to prison for libel. But no man would dare lay hands on me or mine on
my
estate. Unthinkable!'

He rose and inclined his head to signify the subject was closed.

‘Would you be a dear and ask Elise to make sure cook includes Spotted Dick on the menu at dinner? The Quality can eat French pastries 'til the cows come home. Can't beat traditional English puddings, eh?'

Isabel nodded and left the room but was overcome by a wave of frustration. She had totally failed to get the truth across. Garnet was in a state of denial.

Rhys Powell joined them all at midday in the dining room. Isabel was not surprised that he looking haggard.

He's young, a moral Wesleyan and a gentleman of honour yet he's turned his employer into a cuckold. What do I do? Expose the lovers? No, I must wait and take my orders from Marmaduke.

Isabel was stunned that Rhys's manner towards his employer combined his usual respect, civility and commitment to perform his duties to the high standard he had set for himself and which Garnet demanded. During a lull in the conversation Rhys raised the subject of the Grantham murder.

‘May I suggest, sir, it would be wise to put additional security measures in place?'

‘Why, for God's sake?' Garnet demanded.

‘Landholders throughout the Colony will be on high alert, in the wake of Mr Grantham's murder at the hands of what the mounted
police believe is a trio of bolters. True or false, there's wild talk he had previously ordered the illegal flogging of convicts. It is not unreasonable to suspect an act of revenge – assassination.'

‘Assassination? What melodrama!' Garnet hooted in derision. ‘That's a term reserved for royalty, warriors and politicians.'

He turned to smile reassuringly at Isabel. ‘And your chap Shakespeare. Who was that old Roman who came to a sticky end at the hands of a pack of his senators?'

‘Julius Caesar,' Isabel said politely but felt shocked by Garnet's nonchalance.

What does it take to get through to the man? Does an armed bolter need to march into the room and interrupt his dinner?

Garnet tried to sound reasonable. ‘Grantham didn't deserve to be cut down, but as a landowner he was just a minor player compared to me – and Samuel Terry. Two-and-a-half thousand acres and a handful of assigned men? A mere bagatelle. His demise was due to being the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time. We'll say no more of it.'

At the end of the meal Garnet and Rhys removed themselves to the office. Isabel was surprised to overhear Garnet say, ‘How many of our men can be trusted as guards, eh?'

Elise pleaded a headache and took to her day bed. Isabel noticed she had been eating double portions, no doubt as a remedy for her unhappiness.

In an effort to keep her own emotions under control, Isabel gently banished the servants from the kitchen and resumed making a fresh dish of Summer Pudding. Her hands were stained with berry juice and, as she had tasted it several times to ensure the right balance between sweetness and the natural flavours of the fruit, she suspected her face must bear tell-tale smears like some hungry child's.

Singing snatches of old songs in an attempt to keep her mind off her fears for Marmaduke's safety, she had just put the white bread lid on the dish when she reached the words of
Scarborough Fair
, ‘
once there was a true love of mine
'.

‘I thought you didn't believe in true love.'

Marmaduke stood leaning back against the closed door. His head cocked to one side, a cynical half smile playing at the corners of his
mouth. His dark hooded eyes were watching her in a way that made her blush with pleasure. His face was touched by the sun, his clothes looked as crumpled as if he had slept in them and his hair hung freely around his shoulders, dripping wet as if he had just emerged from a billabong.

God, he's so handsome, even when he looks like a vagabond. How could those ‘sweet ladies' in Sydney manage to resist him?

She felt the words dry in her mouth. What on earth was it safe to say?

‘You're all wet,' she said. ‘Is it raining?'

Marmaduke threw back his head and laughed in disbelief. ‘I ride through the night to race home to my bride. I bathe in the creek so I won't be sweaty when I kiss her and all she can ask about is the weather!'

She took a step closer to him, trying to rub her face clean with the back of her hand. ‘I'm glad you're home safe. I was afraid for you. We know about the assassination and what that means to all of us. Why didn't you write properly? Too busy entertaining your mistress?' She faltered. ‘I'm sorry, I forgot Mr Grantham was your friend. You were at his funeral?'

‘Yeah. I rode with Edwin behind the cortege to the old burial ground. Every judge, magistrate, politician, newspaper editor and Uncle Tom Cobley
et al
were there, most of 'em mouthing platitudes. We could have been standing cheek to jowl with Rupert's murderers, who knows?' For a moment Marmaduke's eyes were serious then unexpectedly his attitude became nervy as he rattled off a list.

‘I've been busy. Got myself initiated as a Freemason. Nailed down the plans for the house I'm gunna build you on Mingaletta. Wrote a Will to see you right in the event some villain sends me to meet God in a hurry. Oh yeah,' he added, ‘and I set up an account with the Bank of New South Wales in your name, no questions asked, so you can be financially independent of me. Money's what it's all about, the reason you married me, right?'