The Lace Balcony (65 page)

She clearly suspected it was an alias. ‘Fill in this form but if you can't read –'

‘Perfectly, thanks Ma'am.'

Mungo filled in the form and took a seat. A half-hour passed. Sandy appeared at the door of his office to be greeted by a flustered Miss Weekes.

‘This person, Mr O'Connor, refused to leave, Doctor. You asked not be disturbed until Mr Quayle arrived.'

‘Aye, indeed I did. You did the right thing. But I'll see Mr O'Connor in his place. If you'd be kind enough to bring me a pot of tea?'

Seated in Sandy's inner sanctum, Mungo nervously fingered the brim of his hat. He noticed the book on the desk was about Mesmer. ‘I just dropped by to say goodbye,' Mungo said, ‘But it seems you were expecting me.'

‘Aye, that I was.' Sandy eyed him curiously. ‘But what's this Sean O'Connor business? I thought we'd left
him
behind at Moreton Bay.'

‘I have no wish to bring any more shame on my family than I have already. Look, Sandy, about last night. My mind is made up.
I just wanted to set the record straight with you before I head off. I've booked a passage on the
Isabella
tomorrow.'

‘Determined to return to the scene of the crime, are ye, lad?' Sandy asked lightly. ‘That's what murderers are supposed to do. But in your case maybe you're homesick for Moreton Bay. It certainly has some of the most beautiful scenery God ever put on the planet. I would nae mind a wee holiday in Brisbane Town myself.'

Mungo's nerve finally cracked. ‘Sandy, for Chrissake, this is no laughing matter. Don't you understand what I told you last night? When I saw Boadicea being whipped by that mongrel Blewitt, my brain snapped. But what I saw wasn't exactly what was in front of my eyes.'

He paused as Miss Weekes entered the room bearing tea. Conscious that his shaking hands betrayed him, he grabbed hold of the cup she presented to him but spilt the contents in the saucer and waved it aside in embarrassment. Once the door was firmly closed behind her, Sandy removed the whisky bottle from his desk drawer and poured him a noggin.

‘Tea is just for appearances. Miss Weekes is a Methodist and doesn't hold with hard liquor. Where I come from this is the only brew that counts.'

Mungo clenched the whisky he was offered.

‘So exactly what was it you imagined you saw?' Sandy asked.

‘I seemed to be in two places at once. It sounds crazy, but it was like I was in two different time zones. Like looking through a veil from one place to another. I was right back in Moreton Bay – the place they found Logan's dead horse.'

With a great effort of will Mungo looked him straight in the eye. ‘I wish it was a hallucination, Sandy, but it was so vivid I know it was real. I remember Logan's eyes staring at me. I was yelling and holding my knife above him, stabbing the knife and . . . and the knife was
red.
'

Mungo looked at his extended hands in horror. ‘Logan's blood. What further proof do you need?'

‘The man's dead. His body was brought to Sydney and given a proper funeral and a final resting place. So why are you telling
me
all this?'

‘Why?
You of all people deserve the truth. You're kin to Logan's widow. You have a right to know. So does his family, his twin sister in Scotland, all of them. No one yet knows the truth. Some blame the blacks for his murder. Others claim it was bolting prisoners who joined the blacks. They're all wrong. It was
me
– no one else. I have to be man enough to own up to it or I can't live with myself.'

I killed his kinsman. Why doesn't he say something – yell at me?

Mungo rose to his feet. ‘I felt I owed you the truth face to face before I go to Moreton Bay and hand myself over to Logan's successor. I've already burned my bridges, left farewell notes for my mother and Vianna. I told her to marry Felix. Her father swung from the gallows at Newgate Prison. She deserves better than a hanged man for a husband. My fate is sealed.'

Sandy's bushy eyebrows knotted in consternation. ‘Aye, so you've condemned yourself without a fair trial. That's hardly British justice.'

‘Did Patrick Logan receive justice at my hands? Why should I deserve better?'

He moved towards the door. ‘I've said what I came to say. I'm sorry I let you down, Sandy. The next you'll hear of me will be in the newspapers – charged with Logan's murder.'

‘Hold your horses, Mungo Quayle. There's something important that needs to be done before ye consider taking that drastic step.'

‘Yeah, what's that?'

‘You have to convince your physician that you're telling the truth. Otherwise, ye have no medical confirmation that ye are of sound mind.'

‘You're calling me a liar? Why the hell would I confess to a crime I didn't commit?'

‘You wouldn't be the first man to give false evidence to get himself hanged. For reasons of insanity, self-delusion, guilt, concealment of a murderer's identity – even a warped desire to be famous. None of this applies to you, though.'

‘I don't feel guilt about
wanting
him dead. So did hundreds of others. But I was the one who had motivation and opportunity to kill him. The deed done, I lost my memory. Maybe to fool myself I could get away with it. Until Logan came back to haunt me – and drove me crazy.
He
can't rest in peace so his ghost won't allow his murderer to rest either.'

Sandy leaned forward in his chair and fixed him with narrowed eyes.

‘You may well have killed him, Mungo. But you are nae a coward. I don't believe you'd draw your knife on an unarmed man. Do you want proof that you
did
murder Patrick Logan – or did
not
? Are ye man enough to live with the consequences for the rest of your life?'

‘Until they hang me.' Mungo gave a hollow laugh.

Sandy nodded. ‘Aye, until they hang ye. Or until ye die in bed of old age.'

Mungo tried to pull off a touch of gallows' humour. ‘I reckon hanging is better than being haunted by Logan's ghost for the rest of my life.'

‘I'm a physician, nae a magician. I canna guarantee I can prevent his return. But consider Plato's theory. He said something like, “Ghosts are souls
not fully cleansed
from the visible, material world, still retaining some part of it and therefore visible.” In my opinion it is no more incredible for a body to be born with second sight than for a child prodigy to create musical masterpieces. Both possess a rare gift.'

‘I can live with Will Eden hanging around me – he was my mate. But Logan is punishing his murderer.'

‘Have ye nae thought of a better reason for his making his presence known?'

‘What?'

‘
You
can
see
him! If Plato's right and Logan's soul is not yet cleansed from the material world – it may be because he wants justice done by his wife.' Sandy silenced him. ‘So here's the deal I'm offering you. If you're guilty, justice would be served by your hanging, but it wouldn't help Letitia's cause. If you're innocent, are ye willing to swear you'll pressure the British Government for as many years as it takes to see justice done by Letitia and her bairns?'

‘You have my word on it.'

‘Then I'll do my best to help ye. I'm no expert on the methods of Mesmer and his ilk. But I'll put you into a hypnotic state like a deep sleep. Take you back to relive the past. You'll be conscious of everything you say, but you'll not be capable of lying – any more than a man can lie to God.'

‘I'm not sure I believe in Him. But I reckon I believe in you, Sandy.'

‘I must warn ye it may be painful, because you will experience the same emotions and actions you had during those missing days at Moreton Bay that you've erased from your memory. But when you wake from this hypnotic sleep, you will know the truth – for better or worse.'

Mungo was aware Sandy was observing him, no longer simply his friend but a physician bound by the tradition of his profession, ‘First, do no harm.'

‘There you have it, Mungo Quayle. Are ye game to put yourself in my hands? Not knowing exactly how long it will take?'

Mungo gave a slow nod of assent, reminded of his mother's Manx maxim.
Take your time – it will come to thee.

•  •  •

At first there was nothing but darkness. Mungo felt calm, conscious of his own breathing as he drifted in an uncharted sea, his eyes closed in sleep yet feeling as if his mind was awake in his sleeping body. The voice he heard seemed to come from a distance. When asked to go back to the day of his father's fiftieth birthday and describe what he saw, heard and felt, Mungo's words came easily.

Relaxed and calm, Mungo was right there, standing on the front terrace of Rockingham Hall, holding Toby's hand, admiring Kaiser's shiny ebony coat. He felt a flood of pleasure when his father accepted Toby's gift of the horse blanket.

‘Now you are going to go back even further, to a day in 1830. It is the seventeenth of October. Tell me where you are.'

Ribbons of light filtered through the tropical foliage blocking his path.

‘I dunno. I'm lost. In the bush – somewhere west of Moreton Bay, I reckon.'

‘Are you free or bond?' the voice asked.

‘A prisoner. Why else would I be here.' It was a statement, not a question.

‘What is your name as listed on the convict idents?'

‘Sean O'Connor.'

‘What name were you given at birth?'

‘I can't say.' Mungo hesitated, knowing he must conceal the truth. But to do so would take a great effort of will.

The voice was calm, reassuring. ‘You are perfectly safe now. Nothing and no one has the power to hurt you. What is the name your mother gave you?'

It came with a sigh of relief. ‘Mungo Quayle.'

The voice asked a series of simple questions, asking him to describe what he could see, touch, hear and smell in the world around him . . .

Mungo looked around in wonder. The tropical jungle was alive with rare, multi-coloured birds. He heard that strange faint humming sound that is the voice of the bush – never totally silent. The wild beauty of the place wrapped around him like a warm tropical cloak, the air brushing against his skin as he wandered through the undergrowth . . . knowing he had lost his way and was probably miles from Sandy's bivouac, lost yet unafraid. He felt content to glory in this rare sense of freedom, the intense, vibrant colours, the gloss on the waxy leaves, the lush ferns . . . all around him the gentle sounds of animals, lizards, snakes moving languidly through the different layers of the jungle . . .

From an overhanging branch a snake unfurled its long sinuous body, studded with jewel-like scales. Mungo paused in admiration, saying the words softly, ‘If I died right at this moment I'd be content – knowing I'd seen paradise.'

Yet instinct warned him not to move. He allowed the snake to slither down the trunk of the tree, moving in rhythmic, undulating curves like a series of horizontal S shapes linked together as it crossed the red earth to disappear into the safe camouflage of the brown and dull gold undergrowth.

As if from a distance, the quiet, disembodied voice prompted him to describe in detail exactly what happened next. The scene changed without warning.

Mungo sensed all was no longer well in paradise. Images followed in rapid succession as he began running blindly . . . He heard the sound of other running feet crashing through the bush . . . a man's voice, his cry of terror . . . the ghastly shrieks of a horse . . . He knew there was no escape from the fear . . . Bursting through a break in
the bush he saw it . . . the horse, trapped in the mud . . . a long spear stuck in its hindquarters.

Mungo broke out in a cold sweat, afraid he was already too late to save it as he waded into the mud. The more he struggled, the deeper his legs were sucked down. He kept the horse's head above the mud, trying to calm its terror. Sweat flowed from his body, mingling with the horse's sweat of fear. Mungo refused to give in . . . then the whites of its eyes rolled in one rapid movement – before the terrible sound of the horse's death throes.

He knew there was no choice but to try to save himself. Sobbing with rage, overwhelmed by exhaustion, he struggled towards the bank . . . his breathing rapid, full of fear . . .

The calm, disembodied voice spoke quietly, reassuring him he was perfectly safe. It suggested he leave that scene and move on – and describe exactly what he saw. ‘No matter what you feel, there is nothing there that can hurt you.'

The fear was so real it was almost tangible. Mungo heard the overlapping sounds of men's voices – and a cry of sheer terror. He sensed he was surrounded by unseen figures but had no way of knowing how close they were . . . There was no mistaking one of them . . . the voice of Patrick Logan cried out, ‘Coo-ee!'

Mungo waited. If help was close at hand, there would be an answering response of ‘Coo-ee!' He knew that through cupped hands the Aboriginal call and response would carry clearly for seven miles. The bush remained silent.

Logan's voice sounded eerily close at hand. There was no response. Military help must be out of range.

Mungo sensed he was in mortal danger. He tried to shrink from sight, lying face down in the earth under cover of the undergrowth, freeing the knife from its sheath to defend himself . . .

Finally all was quiet – an unnatural silence. He emerged, his hunting knife drawn at the ready as he drew closer to a clearing. Chestnuts lay scattered on the ground. A thin strand of smoke rose from a dying fire smouldering in a hollow tree trunk. Like toys teased by the wind, white papers scudded across the red earth . . .