The Ink Stain Read online

  Glare and exhaustion made doing up the catch of that blasted brooch more difficult; Hannah had been fiddling with it for a full five minutes. And she had far more important tasks at hand – starting with another visit to the School of Industry. She hoped Henrietta would be sufficiently recovered from her false illness to be in attendance today. Hannah intended to march in, express surprise and joy at the young woman’s quick recovery, and watch her face for any signs that she had seen Hannah peering through Mrs Selwyn’s lace curtains. There was always something – a blink, a purse of the lips. Henrietta might be cunning, but she was only human.

  ‘I very much fear, my friend,’ said Monsarrat from behind her, ‘that you were right.’

  She had been so intent on the brooch that she hadn’t heard him approaching, big-footed lummox that he was. She must not let that happen again – the next person to approach her might not be so benign.

  ‘I usually am,’ she said. ‘You usually tell me I’m not. What has changed your mind?’

  ‘This.’ Monsarrat laid a copy of the Colonial Flyer on the table.

  Monsarrat had taught Hannah to read, and she often looked at the newspapers which he invariably left lying around their parlour in Parramatta. Really, they left a lot to be desired: uniform columns, tiny headlines or none at all, just screeds of type going from one column to the next, with little to distinguish them. It wouldn’t hurt journalists, she’d always thought, to make the headings a little larger.

  Gerald Mobbs, it seemed, had unknowingly taken her advice. At the top of the first column, in big bold type, was the headline ‘Investigation tarnished’.

  The investigation into the death of Henry Hallward, editor of the now-defunct Sydney Chronicle, has been compromised to the point of untenability by the character of the man leading it. In the absence of the governor, an unnamed authority has foisted on Ralph Darling’s long-suffering private secretary a man whose background must call into question every word he utters.

  Hannah’s stomach clenched. The story seemed to be following a very short and straight path. She hoped she was wrong about where it was leading.

  When she read the next paragraph, she wished she wasn’t so often right.

  Hugh Llewelyn Monsarrat, who is currently barging his way into drawing rooms and prisons and, of all places, musical societies in what he says is the pursuit of justice, has himself been on the receiving end of our justice system.

  Occupying a position that requires unimpeachable integrity, Mr Monsarrat first came to these shores having been convicted of forgery. Did he forge letters, perhaps? Promissory notes? No, his perfidy went beyond even these serious offences. He fabricated no less than a call to the bar, a qualification which enabled him to practise as a lawyer, representing unwitting clients in the courtrooms of Exeter. His crime, then, is doubly deplorable, as these good people paid for the representation of a qualified lawyer, and all the money he earned while plying his illegitimate trade can be considered to have been stolen.

  Nor was Mr Monsarrat rehabilitated by his seven-year sentence – a risibly lenient decision of the court, which would have been justified in hanging him. On being granted his ticket of leave, Mr Monsarrat almost immediately breached its conditions, finding himself transported to Port Macquarie, a penal settlement where the most refractory are gathered and no doubt teach each other yet more imaginative ways to contravene the law.

  This is the calibre of the man who has been charged with solving this most appalling slaying. The Flyer does not know what was behind the decision to appoint Mr Monsarrat. We do, though, submit this incontrovertible truth for our readers’ consideration – that any assertions he makes, any findings of his investigation, must be treated with the greatest suspicion.

  Hannah wanted to spit on the newspaper. She wanted to trample it beneath her feet and tear it to shreds. She settled, though, on throwing it into the parlour fire, where it browned and curled and sent up smoke she was afraid to breathe in, so noxious were the words.

  Monsarrat took a poker and stirred the paper’s ashes. ‘I do wish that would help. Satisfying as it is, though, that was by no means the only copy of this morning’s Flyer.’ He tossed the poker aside, and it landed with a clang, breaking one of the flower-painted tiles that surrounded the fireplace.

  ‘Miss Douglas will not be happy,’ Hannah said.

  Monsarrat whirled around to face her. The sudden movement from someone usually so precise, so deliberate, was jarring. ‘Miss Douglas can go to the devil!’ he roared. ‘Along with Gerald Mobbs and Edward Duchamp and everyone else who sees me as damaged beyond repair!’

  Hannah started. She had rarely heard his voice at such volume. ‘It’s unfair, and it’s upsetting, but I am not your enemy. If you’d stop screaming, we can decide what to do.’

  ‘What to do? What can I do? Everything Mobbs has written is true! I was relieved, after the pretence on Maria Island, that those in power knew I used to be a convict. But this! It impugns my integrity. Makes me look calculating. A creator of illusions. It’s one thing for people to know I did not come here free. Another for them to have a slanted view of the crimes which brought me here fed to them with their breakfast. I will never, no matter how many murderers you and I bring to justice, be allowed to forget my past. They will disregard it when it suits them and smother me with it when I become a problem. Good God, why can’t I be a simple clerk or a schoolmaster like Donnelly?’

  ‘Now you’ll stop that, Mr Monsarrat. Might as well ask why you weren’t born a duke or an earl – or an Irish farmer. You don’t deserve this, but Mr Hallward did not deserve to die. We can bring him justice, and we can save that lad – but only if you stop bleating about this and bend yourself to solving this murder. You must get justice for a brave man, and rescue a small boy.’

  ‘I can do neither if I’m dismissed because of this slander,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Well, even if you are dismissed, it’s not your fault if you don’t know about it. Continue on. If you meet a closed door, go to the next one. But you will not go to Government House, and you will not be home to receive letters, so unless Duchamp comes looking for you, you’ve no reason to abandon your post. Even more reason to stick at it. Someone fears you are nearing the truth. Someone who knows all about your past.’

  ‘You mean Duchamp? It’s true that if the man is guilty and there needs to be an investigation, best it be conducted by someone who is easy to undermine.’ Monsarrat shook his head and took a sip of tea. ‘But we have so many other possibilities. Mobbs, of course – he’s bound to know people who could find my convict records, without Duchamp’s involvement. Albert Bancroft. Henrietta. Even Reverend Alcott.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get started,’ said Hannah, ‘before too many people read the paper. Yes, the Flyer has attacked your integrity; yes, Sydney’s finest drawing rooms are closed to you, but certain people – some of whom might have more information than we know – will view a denouncement from the Flyer as a stronger reason to trust you than a visit from the Archangel Gabriel.’

  Hannah paused in front of the doors of the Female School of Industry. In her woollen truss, she believed that she looked fierce and severe. She was grateful for this, as it disguised the creeping nervousness that clenched and slithered inside her.

  She could have sworn her eyes had connected with Henrietta’s through the curtain. That she’d seen a flicker of recognition. But the lace had made everything hazy, and Henrietta had stopped only for a moment before turning towards the door. Perhaps she had simply seen a movement of the curtain and a dark shape behind it, and cursed the neighbour’s curiosity.

  The worst thing, Hannah told herself, would be to have gone undetected and then give herself away through nerves. Although, of course, this wasn’t the worst thing. Because if Henrietta had seen her, had recognised her, then she had turned swiftly away to sow doubt in Hannah’s mind. That would make Henrietta dangerous.

  Hannah inhaled, squared her shoulders, smoothed down her jacket and
stepped inside.

  Henrietta was in the small office next to the classroom, writing quickly but without obvious haste. ‘Miss Duchamp,’ Hannah said. Henrietta did not look up, holding her left index finger in the air to ask Hannah to wait as she continued writing.

  After a moment, she blotted the document, slowly folded it, set it aside and looked up. ‘Mrs Mulrooney,’ she said, smiling. ‘I am surprised to see you, I must say.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear of your illness. I am pleased to see you seem much recovered.’

  ‘Yes. Some indispositions fell one like a tree but soon pass over. I feel quite myself this morning. Now, can I help you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I had presumed that I would be the one doing the helping,’ said Hannah. ‘Not knowing how ill you were, I assumed there might be need of me here.’

  Henrietta stood up. ‘You are kind. But as you can see, I am perfectly capable of taking back the reins. Do allow me to walk you out, though.’ There was no hand-patting now, no gentle touch on the elbow – Henrietta simply swept ahead of Hannah and expected to be followed. ‘I understand it was a rather interesting lesson yesterday,’ Henrietta said as they breached the door. ‘I had to discipline my lady’s maid for deserting her post. Not that I needed her, of course – I was in bed, resting. But she really must not leave without permission. If you are using her to set an example for the girls, I think it was a poor one.’

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Hannah. ‘It was very thoughtless of me to take your maid away with you ill.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it for another moment,’ said Henrietta, sure-footed as she descended the stairs to the front door. ‘Although of course you’ll ask next time, won’t you? If you want something belonging to me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I do like you, you know. I knew about your nephew’s past – well, Edward told me. I don’t hold you responsible. It’s not as though you’re the convict.’

  Did she know the truth, and was simply batting Hannah back and forth between her paws for amusement?

  ‘A word of advice,’ Henrietta said, opening the door to the street, ‘from an experienced city woman to a neophyte.’

  Hannah nodded, all respect and rapt attention.

  ‘One hears so many rumours in Sydney. Intentions can so easily be misread that a simple mistake – yes, my dear, I’m sure it was a mistake – might come across as an act of malice. You will bear that in mind, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, and again I apologise,’ said Hannah, but the door had closed.

  Monsarrat pounded on the door of the Flyer’s office with such force that he had to pick a splinter from his hand. The man seemed to be connected to every aspect of this business, from the Duchamps to the duel. Monsarrat also wanted the editor to see the breathing man he had turned into a paper monster.

  The door was dragged open by the same fellow who had admitted Monsarrat the other day. When he saw who was standing there, he smiled nastily. ‘Your morning paper spoiled your breakfast, did it?’

  ‘It did make it a little harder for me to choke down my egg. So I thought I’d return the favour to your proprietor. Is he in?’

  ‘It is not usually our practice to admit irate people who have been the subject of this newspaper’s attention,’ the man said, beginning to close the door.

  He stopped when a northern-accented voice behind him called out, ‘For God’s sake, let him in. He is not dangerous – the worst injury I’ll sustain is a headache from his incessant talking.’

  The man shrugged, opened the door and gestured Monsarrat inside.

  Mobbs was standing at the bottom of the staircase that led up to his office. He beamed at Monsarrat as though at an old friend. ‘Please do come up, Mr Monsarrat. No need to keep these men from their work.’

  By the time Mobbs’s office door closed behind him, Monsarrat’s anger was beginning to flag. Until he saw the smirk on Mobbs’s face as he settled behind the desk.

  ‘Anyone,’ Monsarrat said, ‘would think that you do not want Hallward’s killer apprehended.’

  ‘I find that an odd interpretation of this morning’s editorial,’ said Mobbs. ‘Obviously I would very much like to see the killer of a newspaper proprietor apprehended. All I did was question if you are the right man to do it.’

  ‘You could have done that without slandering me.’

  Mobbs extracted a copy of that morning’s paper from his desk drawer, then set it between them so the story about Monsarrat was clearly visible. ‘Do me a courtesy, if you would, Mr Monsarrat. Point to the section of this article that isn’t true.’

  ‘Why, it’s all true, damn you, but painted a very unflattering shade.’

  ‘There would be nothing to paint if you had not committed two crimes, Mr Monsarrat. Here in this colony, more than anywhere else, vigilant press is required to make sure the stains brought by criminals like you do not leak out and pollute the whole society.’

  ‘If you were truly interested in a press that held wrong-doers to account, you would be supporting me in my attempts to identify Hallward’s assassin.’

  Mobbs’s eyes turned furious in an instant. He stood up and thumped his fist on the table. ‘I am sick to death of hearing about Hallward!’ he yelled. ‘The man has become a saint to some in death, and I assure you he never was one in life. He has been praised as the guardian of the truth, voice of the voiceless, while those of us with more moderate views – which are no less important, I’ll have you understand – are drowned out. No more, Mr Monsarrat! Now that Hallward is no longer frothing at the mouth in print every second day, there is room for other voices, those of us who guard the real truth – that this colony will only survive if the authority of the administration is not undermined. With Hallward no longer yelling in every ear, the voice of reason – my voice – will finally be heard!’

  ‘It was heard loudly enough when you broke into Hallward’s newsroom.’

  ‘The accusations of involvement in the break-in are completely unfounded. That’s why we went to the trouble of fighting a duel over them.’

  ‘And does not your particular brand of pollution spread all the way to Government House? To the colonel’s family? To his sister?’

  Mobbs rounded the desk, grabbed Monsarrat by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him, so that Monsarrat could feel the man’s spittle as he spoke.

  ‘You will not, sir, presume to make any assumptions on that score. Should you decide to concern yourself with such matters, you will find I jealously defend my interests. And I might, Mr Monsarrat, be tempted to use more than a pen to do it.’

  Mobb’s veiled threat of violence distressed Monsarrat. Not for his own sake – violent men were a part of life in the colony. But this man might have Peter. And Monsarrat did not know whether consideration of the lad’s tender years would be enough to prevent Mobbs using any means possible to extract Peter’s secrets.

  ‘I don’t know what you expect to find, Mr Monsarrat,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Months ago, wasn’t it? And, in any case, the duel was reported in the Flyer. It’s not as though anyone was trying to conceal anything, to deny that it happened.’

  ‘Reported in the Flyer, as you say,’ said Monsarrat. ‘Reported by Mobbs. You’ll forgive me for being ill disposed towards anything that man writes.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a sin that requires forgiveness,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.

  She was almost running to keep up with Monsarrat’s long strides, and seemed happy to do so, if it meant they could keep the appointment she had made the week before with Stephen Lethbridge.

  ‘Hopefully Lethbridge has something. Did he tell you where in the gardens he would be? Our friend has a habit of collecting the most remarkable information, which people hand over with their payment for a pie,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Or they pay to make him stop talking about the Greeks and Romans,’ said Mrs Mulrooney.

  ‘My dear lady, I doubt such a thing is possible.’

  Lethbridge had positioned himself
directly inside the gardens’ gates, where everyone entering and leaving could see him and inhale the scent that escaped his hotbox. Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney stood to the side while he served his last few customers, and those who had been clamouring for his pies lost interest in his discussion of the relative merits of Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy.

  When the crowd dwindled Lethbridge jumped off his crate and bounded over to Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney, not stopping until Monsarrat’s hand was in his. He pumped it up and down as though hoping to draw water. ‘My dear fellow! Wonderful to see you. Parramatta is missing a dash of intellect. Do you know, I believe you’re the only man in the entire town who reads Catullus in the original?’

  Monsarrat smiled in spite of himself, clapped Lethbridge on the shoulder. ‘And you, Mr Lethbridge. Odd as it is to see you out of your natural habitat.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have one, Mr Monsarrat. Although I suppose you could say the road is where I actually belong.’

  ‘And that road may have taken you to the door of somebody we are very interested in speaking to?’

  Lethbridge gestured them over to a nearby bench. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I stand,’ he said. ‘My legs seize up if they’re not constantly used, you see. And yes, Frank Gleeson – visiting his sister somewhere to the west, so Mrs Mulrooney told me.’

  Monsarrat nodded. ‘So the governor’s private secretary said. But I would not necessarily set great store by his honesty.’

  ‘Very wise, Mr Monsarrat, and I am about to prove you correct. Frank Gleeson, you see, does not have a sister.’

  ‘How on earth would you know?’

  ‘He told me. Just this week.’

  ‘Extraordinary fellow you are,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, ‘to find him so quickly.’

  ‘I actually found him a few weeks ago, only I didn’t realise it. There’s a house – well, it’s more hole than wood – on the road to Blackheath. I have wagered with myself for quite a while now how long it would be before I scampered past to find it collapsed in on itself. But a few weeks ago I saw a man outside the place. Hammering new planks above the old, he was. My first thought was, You won’t be there long. If he was intending to live in it, he’d have to tear it down and start again. The repairs he was making, they were enough to keep out the rain – the worst of it, anyhow. Why anyone would want to live there, though, I couldn’t guess.’