The Soldier's Curse (25 page)

‘By a technicality,' said Monsarrat, ‘no, sir.'

Then shadow Monsarrat gave a final flex, and wholly consumed his host. ‘But by the laws of natural justice, I am where I should be.'

Bulmer's smile transformed itself into a thin red line, a sword slash. ‘I have my own views about where you should be, according to the laws of divine justice,' he said. ‘Return to your district at once. And do not think for a second this will go unreported.'

Again, Monsarrat felt the compounding anger. ‘May I ask, sir, if marriage be the most desirable state – the only morally possible one – between a man and a woman, why you go to such lengths to prevent the development of the amity which leads to it?'

‘Amity, is that what you're calling it now?' Bulmer sneered. ‘Marriage has one purpose and one only, Monsarrat: the production of children, for which amity is not required. As for any marriage you might make, I'll do anything I can to prevent you breeding. Intelligence and criminality in the one form is a dangerous thing, and those who carry both within them should not expect mercy.'

He gave a little nod, then, as though agreeing with himself. Well done, he was likely thinking. That was very elegantly phrased. I might use it in a sermon.

The gesture, though small, irritated Monsarrat beyond words. ‘I would not expect mercy from your pulpit, sir,' he said, thinking that he never would have expected to miss Exeter's reverends, or London's, who put off their moral strictures at the end of the workday. They served a god of nods and winks. The antipodean god seemed to be a much harsher deity, if His representatives here were anything to go by.

The Reverend Bulmer reached forward and pulled a coach whip from its holder beside his convict driver. He slashed it in Monsarrat's direction but it merely grazed the shoulder of
Monsarrat's horse. ‘Get going, sir,' said Bulmer, in a tight voice, ‘lest I forget that I am a man of peace.'

A sudden dispassion descended on Monsarrat. He skirted the glorified dray in which the Reverend and his wife were travelling and cantered up the road to Windsor. But when he had gone perhaps a mile he waited until he was certain that Bulmer's carriage had passed.

Monsarrat was still in a sufficiently defiant state not to realise the full weight of what he had done. He had not only been found out of his district, but he had also been guilty of insolence, and magistrates – even sometimes the progressive Cruden – loved to have the insolent flogged, since they knew that without servility they might face some sort of white-slave uprising.

So Monsarrat doubled back to Parramatta to warn Sophia what was to happen.

He had expected a more emotional reaction. True, one perfect tear from each eye strolled down her cheek – anything more would have been overdoing it.

She walked up to him, and he thought she was going to kiss him. Then she drew back her hand and struck him, hard, across the face, opening a small gash in his cheek with her ring. It was a fake engagement ring she wore, together with a gold band, as a silent warning to amorous boarders. Monsarrat had hoped to replace it with a real one, but knew that would never happen now.

‘You foolish man,' she said. ‘What an awful, awful waste. We could have been amongst this place's first citizens.'

He did not point out that it was she who had encouraged him to extend his visits. He touched an index finger to his face, examined the blood on it, and looked at her pointedly.

She did kiss him then, and started crying in earnest.

It was a great honour for a man in New South Wales to be wept for, because few in the place were in a position to utter promises of deathless love. Congress between men and women was either headlong and reckless or a matter of convenience, of sensible choice, of the person possessing the resources to keep a man or woman out of want and out of trouble.

There were no New South Wales Eloise and Abelard, no Dante and Beatrice, no Romeo and Juliet. He could not expect the comely Sophia to wait for him – he had not asked for such a thing, nor had she offered. She would not remain a nun to honour his misfortune, a banal one by New South Wales standards. She would see how things turned out – he knew it and she knew it, and though neither of them said it, they both understood that was the way a sane person should proceed. In any case, Sophia would be unlikely to remain alone for long, especially in a place where men so emphatically outnumbered women.

He rode home undetected later that night, taught the Cruden boys on Monday morning, and was visited by a constable with a warrant on Monday afternoon. He would have been held in gaol pending the Wednesday morning magistrates' court, but Cruden insisted to the constable that Monsarrat could safely stay there, on his property.

Taken to court by Mr Cruden in his own surrey, Monsarrat faced his employer in Cruden's persona as magistrate, and was stripped of his ticket of leave and given into the care of two constables who were to escort him to Parramatta and then by river down to Sydney, where he was to be detained in the prison at Hyde Park awaiting the discretion of His Excellency.

Monsarrat had feared that he would be flogged, but Mr Cruden and his fellow magistrate were not willing to accommodate the Reverend Bulmer to that extent. But by the judgement of the magistrates, subject to approval by His Excellency, three years were added to his sentence.

Monsarrat knew he would not be staying in Sydney – the administrative centre had no place for those who had offended twice. They had, in the past, been sent to Norfolk Island, a place of terrible repute before it was abandoned. It was said that groups of men would draw straws, with the winner to be killed quickly by the man with the second longest straw, who would hang after the loser testified against him, all the while envying him and his victim. This, it seemed, was the most reliable manner of escape. Or they had been sent to Newcastle, but that was now
the preserve of free settlers, as the place had proved too easy to escape from.

For a few years now there had been whispers of a new place of banishment, a new slag heap of second offenders, remote enough to prevent easy access to Sydney. A place, it was rumoured, of cruel overseers, threatening mountains and even more threatening natives. And it was here that Monsarrat was sent.

He wrote Sophia a note – apologising, letting her know she had had a genuine place in his affections – before he boarded the
Sally
, bound for Port Macquarie. She did not write back.

He missed Sophia Stark, but after a time he realised he did not ache for her. He ached for a conditional pardon. Not even Bulmer could undermine him then.

Monsarrat laid aside the unfinished – and destined to remain forever so – letter to Sophia. He expected to be called on to write other letters soon enough. Letters to Honora Shelborne's family. He started polishing some of the phrases which he might incorporate in them, anticipating that the major would be overcome with the dual imperatives of making the necessary arrangements for his wife's burial, and bringing her killer to justice.

While Monsarrat was used to being still, he was most definitely not used to being idle. His mind rambled in all sorts of directions he would rather it not go. Chief amongst these was what – or whether – to tell the major about Diamond's secret commission. He could ill afford a third offence against his name. But none of them could afford a killer – particularly one of Diamond's supreme viciousness – to go unpunished.

He hoped that the letters together with Gonville's testimony regarding the incident with the convict's daughter would form enough of the picture for Major Shelborne to at least question his second-in-command.

But Monsarrat was not in any way certain of being able to shake the major's faith in the captain. Distasteful necessities could crop up, even here; subordinates without qualms could prove
useful. And a shared history of battlefield blood could bridge gaps between those who might not have tolerated each other in civilian life.

Monsarrat fully intended to lay out the facts, such as they were, pointing to Diamond's culpability, but he would not relish it. He recognised that in doing so, he would be robbing the major of one of his few certainties in the uncertain world, where healthy wives could sicken and die over the course of weeks, and vipers sat in chairs intended for allies.

As he turned all this over in his mind, he scratched crosshatches onto the page in front of him – the cheaper government-issue paper, but still a crime to waste it. His hands, however, refused to be still, and if they were given no words to write, then by God they would at least make marks.

The paper was looking rather scarred by the time Monsarrat heard a tread outside the door. It most definitely didn't belong to a soldier. It was sedate and employed only as much force as was needed to carry its owner along, rather than overdoing it the way most soldiers did, ramming the soles of their feet down as though they hoped to crack the ground beneath them.

Spring, he thought, or Donald. One or the other. No one else.

The door opened and indeed Edward Donald stood in the doorframe, staring at Monsarrat silently.

Monsarrat was usually careful to talk in a measured tone to the other convicts, particularly his fellow Specials. One never knew when goodwill might be crucial. But recent events had shredded his nerves, so that they were in no state to enable him to hold back his irritation. ‘Good God, man, what is it? You're not an ornament to that doorway, you know.'

Donald moved his head back slightly as though he had received the tiniest of slaps. He didn't respond in kind, as to do so would have wasted his precious store of words. ‘The major is approaching Shoal Arm Creek,' he said simply. ‘The doctor bids me notify you, so you can be standing out front to give him such a welcome as is possible under the circumstances. He also requests the housekeeper do likewise.'

‘Thank you, Donald. I apologise for misspeaking. It is a trying time for us all.'

Donald inclined his head. It may have been the acceptance or rejection of the apology. Monsarrat had no idea which, and was beyond caring. He made his way to the kitchen, finding Mrs Mulrooney darning a gash in her apron.

‘I'm getting clumsy these days, Mr Monsarrat. It must be my advancing age. But I seem not to be able to move as well as I did previously, and that blasted table has prodded a nail at me, at just the right angle to catch an unwary apron.'

‘It looks well enough, and will have to do for now in any case,' said Monsarrat. ‘You and I are required at the front of Government House to greet the major. By the time he reaches us, I am presuming that Gonville will have given him the news.'

Mrs Mulrooney pushed herself up, her palms flat on the scrubbed table. ‘How on earth am I going to face him?'

‘How are any of us, knowing the burden he now carries? But face him you must. There are those whom we both know, who would not hesitate to implicate you in his wife's death, and your bearing on greeting him today must be finely calibrated. Sliding your eyes away will only make you look culpable. Despite the fact that you and I are both well aware of your innocence, ours may not be the prevailing view.'

So the pair made their way across the courtyard and around the side of the house, coming to a stop at the front steps which led down from the shaded verandah. From that vantage point, they could see that the major and his party had already crossed Shoal Arm Creek and were beginning to wind their way up the hill. A lad from the stables joined them, presumably to take away and care for the horses, no doubt dispatched by Donald after he had left Monsarrat.

‘She loved that verandah, you know,' said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘She once told me she felt as though she was looking at all of creation from it. You know, I first became aware that all was not right with her just up there, where her chair still sits. She got sick there, as you know. But before she worsened too much, God help me I was
smiling. I thought it was a baby, you see. I rather fancied myself in the role of nursemaid to a young one. Lord forgive me, but that first sign of her illness made me excited.'

Mrs Mulrooney's eyes were shining now. Good, thought Monsarrat, surprising himself by his dispassion, it will do no harm for her to be visibly moved at her mistress's death.

The party was close now, and Monsarrat recognised Slattery's large frame as he and many of the others split off from the group to head for the barracks. Only Major Shelborne, Captain Diamond and Dr Gonville continued to progress to Government House.

The major wasn't the tallest man in the settlement, but his horse was the largest and finest to be had here, and he bore himself with an authority which suited his mount. Despite his days in the bush, Monsarrat noticed that his red coat and its buff facing were spotless. The major shared his clerk's fastidiousness when it came to personal appearance, and he had clearly thought to take a razor with him, as his face was smooth while other faces showed signs of forestation.

He dismounted and handed his reins to the stablehand, the captain and the doctor following suit. Monsarrat saw there was a pallor to the man's face, but if one didn't know the grievous news he had just received, one might have attributed it to hard riding and lack of sleep. His even features were strangely immobile, but this would only be significant to those who knew of their usual mobility, and their owner's ability to transmit an ocean of meaning with a look. It's costing him to keep them so still, thought Monsarrat.

The doctor and the captain had also both taken care in how they arranged their faces. Gonville's was a sombre mask, so artful that Monsarrat could have believed he had studied a diagram on how precisely to quirk down the edges of the mouth and the lids of the eyes to convey respectful and appropriate sorrow.

The captain's face was neutral, and if you saw it from the nose down you might assume he was asleep. But the eyes were anything but sleepy. They were moving over every object in his field of view, assessing it for its utility or threat. Those objects
included Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney, and the captain's gaze fell for a significant period of time on each of them.

As Shelborne approached the steps, Monsarrat stepped forward and bowed. ‘I would like to tender my most sincere condolences on your loss, sir,' he said.

Mrs Mulrooney did not step forward, but her drawn face and shining eyes conveyed a similar message.

‘Thank you, Monsarrat. You will await me in the office; there is much we need to take care of. Mrs Mulrooney, tea to my study, if you please. I'll be there shortly.'

And he faced the entrace to the house, drew himself up to full height as though about to face the fiercest enemy, and entered.

Gonville started forward to accompany the major to his study; however, Diamond inserted himself between the two men. ‘We are grateful to you for taking the trouble to bring us this news on the road,' he said. ‘It is to be regretted that you did not recommend sending a party sooner. I will ensure the major is appraised of all the relevant facts with regard to his wife's illness. I am sure you have patients to attend to.'

With a slight eyebrow raise to Monsarrat, the doctor turned and made his way back to the hospital.

‘Come along then, Monsarrat,' said Diamond. ‘You have work to do.' He turned, with Monsarrat trailing after him.

They sat in silence for perhaps half an hour. The major, when he entered, didn't acknowledge either of them, walking slowly to his desk and sitting down, then forcing his eyes to focus, with visible effort. He picked up the sheaves of paper which Monsarrat had left for him. On the top of the pile in his hand lay Gonville's official report on Mrs Shelborne's death.

‘Is there any correspondence which can't wait, Monsarrat?'

How would I know? Monsarrat was tempted to say. Someone was making himself at home here while you were gone, and could well have pocketed any important letters while he was rifling through your effects.

But the someone was, of course, standing right next to him, so close he could hear the man's breathing – smooth and calm, as befitting someone with nothing to fear and nothing to hide. I really hope I never have to face you across a card table, thought Monsarrat.

He said, ‘Nothing which requires your immediate reply, sir. Only acknowledgements of your latest reports to the Colonial Secretary. The gist seems to be that they wish you to proceed as you are; there are no new orders.'

‘Very well,' said the major, setting down the papers. Then, looking up: ‘Now, Monsarrat, you will tell me what you know of the death of my wife.' Monsarrat thought he heard a judder sneak into the last word the major uttered.

‘The surgeon has dictated to me a full report, sir, which is there at your elbow.'

‘That is not,' said the major slowly, ‘what I asked. What do you, personally, know of the death of my wife?'

Someone has lost no time pouring poison into the well, thought Monsarrat. He needed to answer quickly but carefully. Any misstep, or any suspiciously long pause, would be pounced on by Diamond as evidence of complicity in the crime. The man himself had taken a seat opposite the major.

‘May I have your permission to speak plainly, sir?' Monsarrat asked.

‘By all means. I have no patience for any other type of speech at the moment.'

‘Sir, I know that your wife was improving, and that Dr Gonville held hopes that she might recover, despite taking the precaution to send the captain after you. However, shortly after the captain's departure, the lady regrettably took a turn for the worse, and died soon after. Dr Gonville believes the cause was arsenic poisoning, and that the poison was deliberately administered. This is the entirety of my knowledge on the matter, save for the fact that Mrs Mulrooney has barely left your wife's side during the course of her illness, and has been a most dedicated nurse.'

Diamond looked up at this last statement. ‘Barely left her side – as I told you, sir. If Mrs Shelborne was indeed victim to poison,
who would be better placed to administer it than the person who has been constantly in her presence, and bringing her tea?'

Monsarrat inwardly cursed himself for giving Diamond such an easy entree into the idea of Mrs Mulrooney's guilt. However, he knew Diamond was looking for a path to that destination regardless.

‘Sir,' he said in as steady a voice as he could muster, ‘the surgeon dictated his report to me, in which he said any poisoner would be loath to get near their poison, as there was a possibility of it leaching in through the skin. And as you've given me permission to speak plainly, I would like to express the opinion that Mrs Mulrooney is amongst the finest of women; she had a genuine regard for your wife and would never have harmed her.'

‘Of course,' said the captain, ‘that is what we would expect from her accomplice.'

Here, Monsarrat thought, was a crossroads. It demanded skilful handling. He remembered his interaction with Reverend Bulmer in the Parramatta police district a couple of years ago. He must be more adroit now than he had been then.

If there was one thing military men appreciated, he thought, it was a show of strength under fire. He drew himself up and said in polite but clipped tones, ‘Sir, if the captain is implying that I may have had a hand in the death of your wife, I would like the opportunity to defend myself under all the rigours imposed by a court of law. If this was not his intention, I would appreciate a clarification on the matter. In either case, I must assure you that I played no part in the tragedy.'

The major's tightness began to tell then. He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Of course, Monsarrat, nobody believes that you are in any way responsible. And I tend to share your assessment of Mrs Mulrooney's character. There will, nevertheless, need to be a full investigation, in which you and Mrs Mulrooney will be called on to provide information. That, however, can wait until I have seen Honora buried as she deserves. As I have some arrangements to make on that score, I would appreciate some solitude.'