The Ink Stain Read online

  ‘Revolution!’ yelled someone in the crowd.

  ‘Now, I must stop you there, my brother,’ the speaker said. ‘We are not French, after all.’

  In the coach, Duchamp shook his head and glanced at Monsarrat. ‘My grandfather was French, by the by,’ he said. ‘And judging by your surname, not all of your forebears came from England either.’

  ‘No. Some were from France,’ he said. Whence they fled to escape persecution for their faith, and would not be happy to see their descendants being persecuted for their class, he thought.

  ‘Revolution is a blunt instrument, a tide that sweeps away the innocent as well as the guilty,’ said the speaker. ‘I think we can manage a little more finesse, don’t you?’

  The crowd laughed, and Monsarrat saw some of them square their shoulders and stand a little taller. They were not, after all, a rabble – they had been given permission to think of themselves as capable of finesse.

  ‘My friends, the best way to deal with tyranny is truth. You may not have the opportunity to vote for the governor, but he cannot hold power if the people of this colony lose faith in him. And if they are acquainted with his perfidy, they will.’

  A man near the front yelled, ‘They only need to open the windows and stick their heads out to smell the rot on the breeze.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but some of them would rather not,’ said the speaker. ‘They would prefer not to have to deal with such an uncomfortable reality. Not unless they are forced to. And they were forced to.’ He paused, lifted his head and shouted into the sky, ‘They were forced to by a man who was slain for his honesty, his body hitting the ground not twenty yards from where I stand!’

  His audience stamped the ground, rattled their placards, punched their fists into the air. Monsarrat had to restrain himself from getting out and joining them. Protest was for the free, and he hoped that one day he too could indulge his passion for just complaint.

  ‘And where is justice for Henry Hallward? Where is the truth about his death? It lies beside him in the grave!’

  In the coach, Duchamp turned to Monsarrat. ‘Are you feeling brave this morning?’

  ‘Brave enough, I suppose.’

  ‘Good man. I’m not, but needs must.’ Duchamp stepped out of the coach.

  The man who had been speaking spotted him immediately. ‘Ah! My friends, let no one tell you that protest is meaningless, that you are shouting into the void. Your cries have drawn here no less a person than the governor’s private secretary!’

  The crowd rushed at the coach, and the guard sitting with the coachman began to shoulder his gun. Duchamp turned to him and shook his head, then walked further from the coach. The crowd was still, silent, gathering around him like a storm.

  Damn fool’s going to get himself killed, Monsarrat thought, even as his legs disobediently carried him into the crowd behind Duchamp.

  The colonel nodded to the speaker. ‘Mr Donnelly is quite right,’ he said. ‘Protest is never useless. While you may not believe it, the governor values the voices of the governed, whether that is through protest or not.’

  ‘The governor values authority,’ said Donnelly. ‘He values patronage. He values little else. As a beneficiary of that patronage – how many land grants have you received now, Colonel? – you are a hypocrite to suggest anything else.’

  Monsarrat held his breath, waited for Duchamp to issue the order to arrest Donnelly, steeled himself to jump in to the protestors’ side of the melee should it come to that. But perhaps Duchamp was wiser than Monsarrat had given him credit for. He seemed in no mood to provoke a clash between soldiers and unarmed protestors – an event which, even without Hallward to trumpet it, would likely have resonated all the way back to Whitehall.

  ‘You misjudge the man,’ said Duchamp. ‘He shares your interest in punishing Mr Hallward’s killer. At the time of his death, Mr Hallward was a prisoner of the Crown, and therefore the Crown had responsibility for ensuring his safety. The governor is appalled that we failed to do so, and has authorised me to take all possible steps to identify the guilty. And to that end …’ He turned around, took Monsarrat’s elbow and urged him forward. ‘To that end, we have brought in one of the finest investigators in the colony. A man who has already conducted three highly sensitive and successful investigations, and will now bring his intellectual capacity to bear in this case. Mr Hugh Monsarrat.’

  Some in the crowd, Monsarrat noticed, looked bemused. Others looked somewhat disappointed to have their cause for outrage taken away, their temper blunted.

  Donnelly, though, was not among them. ‘Mr … Monsarrat, is it?’ he said. ‘Sir, how can we trust that you will prosecute this matter with vigour, given who is paying your bills? Surely it is in your interest to uphold the current system of authority, a system that resides in the person of Governor Darling?’

  Monsarrat inwardly cursed. The whole point of his work was that it should be kept in the shadows. And to have been identified so publicly would give Duchamp a convenient person to blame should Monsarrat’s investigation fail. However, since he had been thrust into the public consciousness, he might as well use the opportunity to gain the trust of the people, or at least of those on the margins. And it was on the margins where the truth was often to be found. Wagering that the crowd contained at least a few clerks, he told them, ‘You are right, my salary is paid by the Crown. Such as it is – I generally function as a clerk, and I’m sure many here will know that the wages for such a position could not be considered princely.’

  The chuckle that rippled through the throng told him he’d been right.

  ‘Surely, though, your sympathy must lie with the administration!’ said Donnelly.

  ‘My sympathy lies with the man who was shot here,’ Monsarrat said. ‘And I can assure you, I am more than capable of looking at the administration objectively.’

  ‘How could you possibly do that?’ said Donnelly.

  ‘Well, it helps that I was a convict for nearly ten years, and that my continued freedom depends on justice for Mr Hallward.’

  In a place where the minority of people had arrived free, Monsarrat was certainly not the only former convict in the crowd. Nor was he the only one working for the administration – everything would have ground to a halt if a previous conviction was a barrier to current employment. Still, people like him did not generally advertise their past; it tended to make others uncomfortable. And it was making some people in the crowd uncomfortable now. A few – particularly women – stepped back as though they feared that the sedate clerk would transform into a tiger and consume them. Others, though, nodded slowly.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ said Monsarrat, ‘so it’s hardly surprising that you don’t trust me, particularly in a matter of such importance. I can, though, make you this promise: I will do everything I can to identify Henry Hallward’s killer, even if my investigation leads me in directions I would prefer not to go.’

  ‘I suppose we must take you at your word, then,’ said Donnelly.

  ‘I don’t see that you have any alternative,’ said Monsarrat. ‘You might even help me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, sir, I need to get into the gaol. Perhaps you and your supporters could oblige me by getting out of the way.’

  Chapter 9

  It was marvellous not to be hobbled by whalebone and silk and ridiculous high shoes with fussy little buttons; not to be choked by the gold filigree of a brooch. As soon as Henrietta had deposited Hannah, with a clipped farewell, outside the boarding house, Hannah had raced to her trunk and taken out the black skirt, with its unobtrusive patches, and the white shirt on which no stain would dare to settle.

  She had finished changing and was fixing her white cap on her head, tucking away forbidden stray hairs, when she heard a knock.

  Carolina was wearing the same dark blue gown she had worn at the party. A sedate dark blue, with a plain collar. A bonnet, simple straw, not overflowing with ribbons like some Hannah had seen in Sydney. And a frown, as
though Carolina was surprised to find herself on this doorstep.

  ‘Miss Albrecht! Well, this is –’

  ‘Surprising, yes,’ Carolina said. ‘As is your attire.’

  Henrietta had seemed a bit prissy when she’d corrected Carolina’s manners, but Hannah now found herself in sympathy with Henrietta. Directness was an admirable quality, but sometimes Carolina took it too far.

  ‘I prefer comfort over fashion, Miss Albrecht. Now, do you intend to continue commenting on my clothes, or can I help you in some way?’

  Carolina frowned. Perhaps, thought Hannah, Carolina only realised how rude she was being when she saw offence. ‘I apologise,’ Carolina said. ‘I was hoping I could come in.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hannah said, smiling to show the affront wasn’t terminal. ‘Tea?’ she asked as she settled Carolina at the parlour table.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I cannot stay long.’

  Vindex’s pamphlet was still on the table, and as Carolina picked it up Hannah chided herself for leaving it lying around. She didn’t know where Miss Douglas’s sympathies lay, but suspected not with someone like Hallward.

  ‘You agree with this?’ Carolina asked.

  ‘I believe in knowing as much as I can, whether I agree with it or not. And my … my nephew, of course, is investigating Hallward’s death. Have you seen these before? Any thoughts as to who is behind them?’

  ‘I am aware of them. I presume that the nameless person who writes them wants to remain so.’ She laid the pamphlet down. ‘I came not to discuss Vindex, but another chimera. Henrietta Duchamp.’

  ‘That is interesting,’ said Hannah, ‘as the lady in question believes her brother will try to have these pamphlets banned. You dislike her?’

  ‘Mrs Mulrooney, she and I are here for different reasons.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hannah. ‘And why are you here?’

  ‘The first governor of this place brought my father here to start a vineyard – he had several in Moselle, you see, in Germany. I came as a child, but he sent me back to Germany for my musical education. I returned as a grown woman. Many here see this place as an avenue to enrichment, to be plundered and then deserted, discussed at dinner parties in England. I returned voluntarily. I came here to be a member of a new society, one which might avoid the mistakes of the old.’

  ‘And is it succeeding, do you think?’

  ‘Patently not. And there is less chance of it doing so with Henry gone.’

  ‘He was admired by many, your Mr Hallward.’

  Carolina looked at her sharply.

  ‘He is not my Mr Hallward. Yes, Henry and I were close. But as I’ve already explained – and shouldn’t need to – the nature of that closeness is a matter for ourselves, not for society at large, no matter how much society might disagree.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t offended you,’ said Hannah.

  ‘I give offence far more easily than I take it.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with giving offence – not necessarily,’ said Hannah. ‘Not if you’re offending the right people. You are right, it will be harder without Hallward. His was a strong voice. But it is not the only one. Another seems to have picked up the task, this Vindex person. And good luck to him.’

  ‘Indeed. All power to his pen. I imagine he must need to be very careful,’ said Carolina.

  ‘I suppose so. Perhaps Mr Hallward should have taken a little more care himself. You talked of a story. A stone he intended to throw in the water here which would send ripples all the way to London. I don’t suppose you know anything more about it?’

  ‘Henry and I may have been … close,’ said Carolina. ‘But he told me nothing of this. For a man who made his opinions as public as possible, he was intensely private.’

  As are you, thought Hannah. And I am not at all sure you are telling me everything.

  ‘Ah, well. We may never know now,’ she said.

  She leaned across the table, patted Carolina’s hand, aware the gesture might offend such a spiky woman. It did not seem to. Carolina did not snatch her hand away, just stared at Hannah with her disconcertingly frank gaze.

  ‘You will let me know, I hope, if there is any way in which I can be of assistance,’ she said, in a conspiratorial whisper which was completely unnecessary as they were alone.

  ‘Assistance with?’ asked Carolina.

  ‘Oh, anything really,’ Hannah said. ‘I simply feel that a chorus makes a better sound than a lone voice. As a woman of such musical talent, I am sure you agree.’

  Carolina was silent for a moment. ‘I am sometimes to be found at the recital hall, during the day,’ she said finally. ‘I practise there, for the acoustics. Should you have need of me. This place forces all sorts of unlikely alliances. An association between us would be far from the most outlandish of them.’

  If Hannah had not been so preoccupied with Carolina’s visit, she would have enjoyed walking down the street dressed in the clothes of a servant. Even if she’d wanted to, though, she would have been ill-advised to wear her finer clothes on her current errand. In this part of Sydney, anything that marked her out as wealthy was inviting trouble.

  As she walked, she thought of what Monsarrat had told her about Cullen. An older man with an Irish name, at his post when everyone else had gone. Showing secret kindness to a boy he publicly shunned. Hannah did not hold with gambling, but if she had she would have placed a bet on the supposition that Cullen was protecting the defunct Sydney Chronicle out of idealism rather than the obligation conferred by being paid in advance.

  She would also have bet that it had been a long time since he’d tasted shortbread. The buttery little squares in her basket were not long out of the oven, and their scent leaked from their canvas wrapping as she walked along. More than once, she had looked around to see a small child following her. This was, in fact, how she knew she was getting close to the newspaper’s offices; in the more refined part of town such children would be in their schoolrooms, and never be allowed to follow strange women carrying treats.

  Most people in this part of the city surely locked their doors. Hannah assumed that Cullen, if he cared about the Chronicle, would do likewise. She had expected the Chronicle’s door, then, to bear some evidence of the looters’ visit – perhaps a plank nailed to patch a hole, or a wobbly handle. But the door seemed intact. It was covered in peeling blue paint through which she could see the grey knots of the wood. It certainly seemed to be locked now, as there was no answer to her polite knocks. She hoped the visit from Monsarrat hadn’t scared the man off.

  She had raised her fist to pound on the door when she heard a rustle from the corner of the building – a cat, maybe, or a possum. She walked slowly towards a shrub that grew from the building’s foundations, sprouting what looked like tiny posies of colourful flowers. She recalled Padraig, as a boy, trying to pick one for her, and returning with an arm covered in scratches from the plant’s prickly stalks. If an animal was in there, it would not want to stay for long; a person, though, might think the concealment worth the discomfort.

  She slowed her pace and muffled her footfalls by walking heel-to-toe. When she was within a few yards of the bush, a boy broke from it, belting along the road away from her. Hannah knew she had little hope against a young lad. She would save the chase until she knew whether there was something worth catching.

  As she went back to the door, resolving to punish it with her fists for its failure to open, it did exactly that – only a crack, but enough to reveal blue eyes under bushy grey brows.

  ‘I come on behalf of Mr Monsarrat,’ she said.

  ‘Then you must go on his behalf, for I know no one of that name,’ the man she assumed was Cullen said, in an accent that told her he was from the north, perhaps three or four days’ ride from her own town of Enniscorthy.

  ‘Mr Monsarrat was here yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ said Cullen. ‘But I could say that I believe the governor is not above using old women as agents.’
r />   Hannah drew back her shoulders, fixing Cullen with a glare that would have felled Mr Monsarrat. ‘Perhaps he’s not,’ she said, ‘but as you can clearly see, there is no old woman here. Stop playing the spalpeen and let me in!’ The Irish insult, she hoped, would be more effective than any number of English compliments.

  Cullen was silent for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. ‘I’ve not been called a spalpeen since my grandmother died! Still doesn’t prove you’re not a woman of the administration.’

  ‘And if I were? You’d truly have aroused my suspicion by now – you wouldn’t do any more damage by inviting me in.’

  As the door started to close, she prepared herself to stick her foot in it, knowing that if he slammed it she would be hobbling for weeks.

  ‘I have shortbread,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you would like to share some with your young friend. He looks as though he hasn’t seen any for a while.’

  The door stopped, then slowly began to open.

  There had been no resistance as Monsarrat and Duchamp had walked through the crowd to the gaol door. Duchamp pounded it. ‘This is the governor’s private secretary! Open, please.’

  Monsarrat was dreading the creak of the hinges. He knew that Ralph Eveleigh would not want him returned to penal servitude if he was unsuccessful in discovering the murderer, but he doubted those in control of the decision would share Eveleigh’s reluctance. To walk willingly into a gaol seemed a little too portentous for comfort.

  Monsarrat expected to see Crowdy glaring from the crack in the door as it opened. Perhaps the man wasn’t there, because instead Monsarrat and Duchamp were greeted by a snub-nosed lad of no more than nineteen or twenty, whose red hair had induced the sun to punish him even more than most light-skinned people in the colony.