The Soldier's Curse (28 page)

Monsarrat hadn't reckoned on the major's increasing reliance on Captain Diamond. You think yourself very clever, he chided himself, but a mere inflection, a slight change in the boundaries of trust, is all it takes to trip you up. And one of the best people you have ever known may pay for that dearly.

He walked back towards the kitchen, thinking to share the information from Dr Gonville with Mrs Mulrooney. But the kitchen was dark, and ominously a guard had been posted, standing between the kitchen and Mrs Mulrooney's room.

The guard – one of the young privates whom Monsarrat didn't know very well – was in the process of receiving orders from the captain. But when Diamond saw Monsarrat, he couldn't resist stalking over to one of his favourite playthings. ‘Any more stolen documents in your pocket that I need to confiscate, Monsarrat?'

Shadow Monsarrat had well and truly had enough. He let it be known that he was taking command. ‘No, sir. I understand they're all in yours.'

‘I saw you with the doctor earlier, quite a cabal. I'm sure he told you he was unable to provide any convincing medical proof that Mrs Mulrooney would have been poisoned herself in the process of poisoning Mrs Shelborne. And given that somebody did indeed poison the lady – Gonville's own report says as much – I think we may safely say we have identified the culprit. I am simply awaiting the major's official approval to arrest her. The man is too trusting; he doesn't want to believe it. I am quite sure he will come around, though.'

‘But you know Mrs Mulrooney to be innocent! And me, and the doctor. But especially her – how could you think it? Even a snake like you can recognise decency when he sees it, it is to be hoped. And in any case, you well know who the real killer is.'

‘And who might that be, my educated friend?'

‘It takes a particular kind of evil to obliterate a person one can't have, to ensure no one more deserving can enjoy her society,' said Monsarrat.

Diamond's smile, which had taken on a dangerous tinge, faded now. ‘You think I did this?'

‘You might as well admit it to me, sir. As you say, you can later deny it, claim I made it up to exonerate myself.'

Diamond slowly, very slowly, lowered one shoulder, so that Monsarrat wondered what he could be trying to accomplish. He found out an instant later, when the officer charged him, knocking the air out of his lungs, until Monsarrat was pinned up against the side of the main building. In his fury, Diamond had nevertheless taken care to push him towards a corner where they could not be readily observed from the study or the house.

The soldier's face was red now. It could not have been from exertion: pinning Monsarrat had been the work of an instant, and the latter was not making any attempt to struggle.

‘I would never – never do anything to hurt her. The devil take you for suggesting otherwise. She was the only scrap of beauty in this damned settlement. Why on earth would I have taken her away? And why on earth would I let those who did go unpunished?'

Diamond's spittle was showering Monsarrat's face, where he hoped there were no nicks or cuts to enable access to his bloodstream. He would have spoken but for the hand at his throat, and for a moment he thought Diamond intended to finish him there and then.

Instead, Diamond let go, forcing Monsarrat to the side as he did so. The clerk stumbled and sprawled on the flagstones, the red earth oozing through them making an indelible stain on his white waistcoat.

‘I would arrest you now, but due process must be followed to satisfy the major. In any case, where would you flee? A soft one like you would not survive in the forest for long. So I have time, while yours is running out. Enjoy yourself this evening, Monsarrat, with that tart Daisy or whoever else you fancy. You may expect a visit shortly.'

Monsarrat spent an uncomfortable and largely sleepless night. The river stones became cold in winter, transferring the chill from the river itself up through Monsarrat's bedroll and onto his skin. He doubted, however, if he could have slept in even the most opulent featherbed. He was shocked by Diamond's vehement denial. He had thought the man was secure enough in his position with the major so as not to need to pretend in front of the likes of Monsarrat, who would never be believed. But Diamond's outrage did not seem like an act, designed as a set piece in which he could state his innocence for the record. And a new possibility was occurring to him, a picture emerging from the green sludge in the bottom of Slattery's copper, and his knowledge of all things related to wall decoration.

Monsarrat berated himself again – he had spent a significant portion of the night doing this, but felt that there were still plenty of transgressions, lapses in judgement and general idiocy on his part, the instances lining up and waiting patiently for him to use them, one by one, as a means of self-flagellation.

The current focus of his self-blame was the flimsiness of the evidence against Slattery. You have the fellow condemned, he thought, on even thinner grounds than those which may be the instrument of Mrs Mulrooney's death. And why are you so quick
to admit the possibility that Diamond did not do this? The man must be a consummate actor to have won the trust of the major. He was, no doubt, acting still.

And another detail was hoving into view now, one which he did not want to see, one which he thoroughly wanted to ignore, wished would go away.

He had once asked Slattery what part of Ireland he came from, but it was a pleasantry, and he hadn't really listened to the answer. The other day, though, when Mrs Mulrooney was telling him about Slattery's background, he remembered her mentioning that Slattery was from Wicklow.

Monsarrat had been in the major's office for nearly two years now. He had seen every piece of correspondence which had come through the place, including those addressed to Mrs Shelborne. The back of the envelope always bore a handsome seal, under which were inscribed the words ‘Castle Henry, Wicklow'.

Monsarrat walked with little enthusiasm to the commissariat stores to get his rations the following morning. He felt muted, a curtain of tiredness standing between him and the daily life of the settlement.

As he approached, he saw Spring finishing a conversation with Bangar, in his unmarked canvas clothes, before the Birpai man moved off towards the river.

‘They are mourning Mrs Shelborne too,' said Spring while he was weighing out Monsarrat's rations. ‘Particularly the women. She made gifts for them, you see. Knitted rugs for their babes, or necklaces of seashells for the tribe's little girls, who love a trinket as much as any little girl in England.'

‘It was decent of them to attend yesterday,' said Monsarrat. ‘I fear not everyone shares my view, however.'

‘Yes, I suspect you're right, Monsarrat. They're particularly worried about the curse. They have heard the rumour – God knows where it came from – that some people in the settlement believe she was a victim of one of their curses.'

‘There are probably more here who believe in curses than don't,' said Monsarrat.

‘That might not be far off the mark,' said Spring. ‘They know who and what Diamond is. They fear that with the major immersed in his grief, Diamond may choose to take revenge. It would not be the first time Birpai blood has been spilled, as you well know. And they find it particularly puzzling because, well, they don't really go in for curses. Not as much as the Scots or Irish even.'

‘Mr Spring, I wonder whether you would be good enough to share this opinion with the major? If Diamond really is forming a plan to make an example of them – and it wouldn't surprise me – this may help stay his hand.'

‘I will do what I can, Mr Monsarrat. But I haven't seen him, you know, apart from at the funeral from a distance. I'm told Diamond is pacing around the perimeter of his study like a caged guard dog. But I can assure you I will speak to him.'

Monsarrat took his rations then, and went back to his hut. He did not have the stomach for breakfast, so he placed them on the small shelf alongside the eucalyptus twig that he used to clean his teeth. Then he set out in hopes of finding Mrs Mulrooney in the kitchen, preferably without a guard.

He was disappointed in this last hope. The private from yesterday had transferred his attentions to the kitchen, which was emitting an encouraging curl of smoke.

He nodded to the young man, who nodded back. Thankfully the fellow did not share Diamond's view of Monsarrat, and of convicts in general. Monsarrat was generally liked, or at least tolerated. He kept quiet and didn't trouble the soldiery too much, which was all they could ask of any convict. He was allowed to pass into the kitchen without hindrance, and he was grateful it was winter – open windows would have made frank conversation impossible.

While a Protestant cleric had conducted the funeral, Father Declan Hanley had also attended the service. To be in the settlement at the time of the burial and not to pay respects would have been an insult. Monsarrat found him in the kitchen, perhaps intending to provide comfort to Mrs Mulrooney and relieve her
of some porridge. He was being fussed over by her, his large hands completely obscuring the teacup they held.

‘A very sad day yesterday, Mr Monsarrat,' said the priest when Monsarrat greeted him. ‘That such a person should be taken so young. You know, we tell people God moves in mysterious ways. That's what the priest told me when my sister died. She was like a mother to me, that girl. She was twelve, carried off by consumption. And our priest told me the usual thing – that God moved in mysterious ways. A little less mystery, together with a little less tragedy, would be welcome.' The priest crossed himself, as if to counteract the heresy of his words. Monsarrat found himself liking the man more.

Monsarrat uncharacteristically declined the offer of tea, despite the fact that Mrs Mulrooney's tea was one of the few bright spots in the current situation. He hoped his access to it wouldn't be curtailed in the near future.

‘I just wanted to ask if you would be kind enough to let the crew and me back into the sitting room, to finish the removal of the paper.'

Mrs Mulrooney fished the key out of her pocket, and made for the door.

‘Actually,' said Monsarrat, ‘before we go, I have a question to ask of both of you. I saw some writing scratched into a wall yesterday. It may or may not be Irish – it used accents in the way I've seen in some Irish script – but I've no idea what it means. It said, as far as I can make out, “ti-oc-fade a la” – at least that's my assumption on the pronunciation; the spelling was rather opaque, to be honest.'

‘Ah, the spelling of our Irish words specialises in opacity,' said Father Hanley. ‘“Ti-oc-fade a la” – no, can't say I've heard it. Might have been put there a time ago. We've all sorts through here, as you know, Mr Monsarrat, even the Welsh. Could it be Welsh, or maybe Cornish? It could mean anything, or nothing.'

‘Well, as to the timing, I can say with certainty that it has only been there for a couple of weeks, a month at the most. It's inscribed in the plaster which was recently placed on the sitting room walls.
Quite low down, too, as though whoever put it there wanted it to escape attention.'

‘I for one could use something of a distraction today,' said the priest. ‘The supply of poteen has completely dried up now, and I make no secret it is a solace to me. So a small mystery will have to stand in its place as a means of soothing my troubled mind.' He rose, and the three of them trooped across the courtyard to the house.

‘Good morning there, young Frogett,' said the priest as they approached. ‘You have done those Hail Marys, now, of course. Completely absolved, in a state of grace, are you? Unclean thoughts can be the very devil, and plague all minds. You have to keep up with the penance now.'

Frogett smiled, surprisingly shyly for a man twice convicted of violent offences. Typical, Monsarrat thought, the unclean thoughts must've been the only sins he confessed to Father Hanley. Monsarrat knew the man had been involved in a brawl in the convict barracks quite recently, but he had grown up surrounded by casual violence and would not have seen a dust-up as a sin.

Mrs Mulrooney admitted them. As she was turning to leave, he pulled her aside. ‘I don't wish to burden you; however, I am afraid I have alarming news. Dr Gonville's views are not being taken as seriously as they might. Please, I beg you to be careful. And rest assured I'm doing everything possible to ensure this situation doesn't keep heading down its current path.'

‘I know you are, Mr Monsarrat, and I'm grateful. We shall see what comes. I almost hope they arrest me today – it would put an end to this awful waiting.'

‘I have lately come across some information which may exonerate you, but I shan't say more for now. As soon as I know more – enough to draw realistic conclusions – I will come to you.'

Mrs Mulrooney frowned, then, not the response he'd expected to the ray of hope, albeit weak, he was offering. She patted him on the arm, turned and left.

In the sitting room, he drew Father Hanley over to the writing, that patch of wall now having been entirely stripped of
its decoration. The priest unceremoniously dropped down onto his haunches to examine the words, and gave a soft chuckle. ‘Mr Monsarrat,' he said, smiling, ‘I must say, your Irish pronunciation is absolutely atrocious.'

‘I would call that a fair comment, Father. I assume, then, that you recognise the words?'

‘Indeed. The proper pronunciation is “
chuckie-ar-lah
”.'

How one could get ‘chuckie' from
tiocfaidh
escaped Monsarrat entirely. ‘I've heard that phrase used quite recently,' he said, thinking back to Slattery's departure a few short days ago. ‘I was told it was a phrase to bring good luck.'

‘Well, now, that all depends entirely on your perspective,' said the priest. ‘I suppose some may view it as lucky. Depending on what side of the argument you're on, it could even be viewed as hopeful.'

‘Which argument is that?'

‘Now, you'll forgive me, Mr Monsarrat, you being an Englishman and all, but the argument to which I'm referring is one of the oldest. It's the argument of the people of Ireland against British rule.'

‘I see,' said Monsarrat. ‘So it's an exhortation to hope, then.'

‘As I said, it depends on your perspective. If you're Irish, certainly. But if you're English, it could be seen as something quite different. A threat, perhaps. Even a curse.'

‘And its meaning?' said Monsarrat.

The priest smiled. ‘Mr Monsarrat, those words there before you, they mean “Our day will come”.'

By mid-morning, Frogett and Daines had finished stripping the last of the diabolical stuff from the walls. They asked Monsarrat if they should burn it. He had no idea whether, if the paper really was toxic, the act of burning it would send the toxin flying through the air. He told them to leave it with the other refuse.

Monsarrat had spent the morning pretending to watch the two convicts while chewing on this latest piece of information. He did
not want Diamond to be innocent, and he most certainly did not want Slattery to be guilty, but he was becoming more convinced that the young soldier had had a hand in Mrs Shelborne's death.

He returned to the workroom then, and awaited instructions from the major.

They weren't slow in coming. The major called him in, asking him to bring his writing implements. ‘It's past time I sent word to Sydney of our discoveries in the north,' he said. He began to dictate.