Part 9 (1/2)
-I Corinthians 13:12
CAPTAIN ROSSI HAD ARRANGED FOR THE THREE MEN TO MEET that afternoon, when Dr. Thomas Owens could report on the results of his closer examination of the blacksmith's corpse. They would rendezvous at the Hope and Anchor Tavern.
But which one? It could all be very confusing. Due to some ancient dispute now lost in the mists of time, and no doubt in an alcoholic haze, drinkers bestowed the name on two widely separated establishments. One was in Suss.e.x Street and the other on the northwest corner of King and Pitt streets.
The Suss.e.x Street rival perhaps had the best claim to the name; after all it was closer to the sea, as an anchor should be. Nevertheless, the Hope and Anchor in King Street had its devotees, who often tried to avoid confusion (but just as often created more mental mayhem) by referring to it by its previous name, the Bunch of Grapes, or even an earlier name, the Three Legs o' Man.
Rossi and Dunne arrived at this tavern at the appointed hour and were served in the taproom by a powerfully built young man perhaps in his early twenties. He had a drooping moustache, which accentuated his generally sad demeanor.
”Gentlemen?” he queried in a well-modulated, cultured voice. Rossi ordered a brandy and the patterer a porter, just as Owens bustled through the door and joined them at the bar. The doctor surprised his companions with his order: ”Adam's ale, please.” He explained that he was drinking water because he had a lady patient to see and alcoholic breath might distress her.
Dunne was not convinced. ”You, Doctor, water?” He laughed. ”I recall you once warning me off the very stuff! You said it could carry disease, as miasmas and suchlike do. Why, you declared that the Tank Stream was not the only fouled water here, that most well water was unsuitable for drinking.”
Owens looked down his long nose. ”If it has been boiled-and I am a.s.sured that it is served here thus-then it is quite safe. Anyway, there are worse things than dirty water.”
”Would you care to elaborate on that?” asked the patterer, intrigued by the doctor's serious tone.
”No,” said Owens flatly. And the topic was dropped.
The doctor then confirmed that the smith had received injuries during flogging (obviously from a tyro thrasher) but had actually died of apoplexy. And yes, a number of the cuts came not from whip knots but somehow from a sharp blade, which had also been used to cut off the p.e.n.i.s and inflict wounds mirroring those on the first victim.
”And the intriguing matter of the usual sugar in the mouth being green?” asked Rossi.
”a.n.a.lysis showed normal sugar with the simple addition of copperas, or ferrous sulphate, also called green vitriol. It's used in dyeing.”
”Dying?” repeated Rossi, startled.
”With an e e in the middle, Captain-meaning for coloring.” Owens then changed the subject suddenly. ”I'm hungry,” he said. ”Does that go for anyone else?” in the middle, Captain-meaning for coloring.” Owens then changed the subject suddenly. ”I'm hungry,” he said. ”Does that go for anyone else?”
”Any pies, William?” Dunne called to the barman. The man left his counter and walked to the corner of the room in which stood a brightly painted handcart. The upper part of the cart had compartments for pies and gravy pans and below was a glowing charcoal brazier. He returned to his customers with three pies and accepted the nine pence tendered.
William Francis King made most of his pie sales outside the pub. Between s.h.i.+fts tending bar, he tramped the streets of the town and beyond, trundling his pie-cart. Behind the bar this day he wore rather conventional clothing but, when hawking, he affected an eye-catching outfit. He was as well known a character throughout the small settlement as Paddy the Ram, Old Mother Five Bob, Garden Honey or any of the other perambulating peddlers: oyster-sellers, butchers, fishmongers, fruit-traders, bakers, even apothecaries. He cried his wares on street corners, outside the barracks, at horse races, cricket matches, bull-baiting and dogfights.
It was an odd life for a man of King's background. The well-educated son of an influential Treasury official in London, he had been intended for a career in the Church. Somehow, no one in the colony seemed quite sure of the dark secrets involved, he drifted, or was bundled off, to Botany Bay. He had been a schoolteacher here briefly. But again events-some people said it was boredom, others yet another secret setback-deflected him, this time into serving beer and pies.
His main fame rested, however, on his powerful body, which carried him on endeavors that constantly amazed settlers and made (or lost) money for gamblers betting on his success or failure.
He would don an eccentric costume with either a tall hat or a jockey's cap and stout boots, and would capture the public's attention by walking the thirty-two miles from Macquarie Place, in the heart of the town, to Parramatta-and back-in six hours. He could even beat the coach to Parramatta.
He had once carried a boy on his back to the same outer town in three hours; and once lumped, on his back and at a run, a ninety-pound goat for a mile and a half in twelve minutes.
Nothing they saw William Francis King doing could surprise the citizens of Sydney town. Thus, and little wonder, he was known far and wide simply as the ”Flying Pieman.”
King was modest about his exploits. ”I'm not in the same cla.s.s as Walking Stuart,” he had once replied when congratulated by the patterer on some extraordinary piece of pedestrianism.
He explained, after Dunne professed ignorance, that John Stuart, who had died six years earlier, was the son of a London draper. As a young man, he had gone to work for the East India Company in Madras. After resigning over an argument he soon earned the epithet ”Walking” by doing just that, throughout Hindoostan, Persia, Nubia and across the Arabian Desert. He then trekked through Europe from Constantinople to England. Later, he walked across known America and Canada.
He was the Pieman's hero. ”Thomas de Quincey,” King told Dunne earnestly, ”said that Walking Stuart as a pedestrian traveler saw more of the earth's surface than any man before or since.”
The patterer was not sure how good a judge of reality Mr. de Quincey might be. After all, his claim to fame was far from down-to-earth: authors.h.i.+p of Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater.
Nonetheless, Nicodemus Dunne appreciated the merit in Walking Stuart's athleticism. And William King's ability was no pipe dream either.
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THEIR PIES (AND some further liquid lubricants) gone, the three companions turned to further digestion of the fruits, so far, of their investigative labors. They retired to the comfort and privacy of a bench against one wall.
Captain Rossi leaned back against one high wooden divider and summed up: They had three murders (they could not believe that the death of the man known as The Ox was due to suicide), all connected by the victims' service in the same regiment. The fourth killing, in the Lumber Yard, seemed different, despite similarities. The captain's listeners agreed.
Then the patterer raised a thought: ”I have been wondering what the convict overseer meant when he referred to the late blacksmith regretting some work he had performed.”
”Can you take any notice of anything a convict overseer says?” grunted Rossi. ”They're usually the sc.u.m of the system. They're generally lags themselves who get a year's remission on their sentences for every two years they're willing to drive the poor devils under them. They're distrusted on both sides. And with good reason.”
”Still,” said Owens, ”it's worth considering. What did the keeper say? Yes, that's it; he said the blacksmith-a hard man, mind you, no doubt made insensitive by his work-nonetheless had felt badly about how some shackles he once made were too punis.h.i.+ng for a prisoner. And not just any prisoner, mind you. He specified that it was a soldier.”
”Soldiers seem to bob up everywhere,” said the patterer. ”So, clutching at straws, can we link our earlier beliefs and conclude that the motives are revenge for some injury or injustice done by the action of a soldier?”
”Or done to to a soldier by the system?” added Owens. a soldier by the system?” added Owens.
At that moment they were interrupted by a voice that carried clearly over the wooden divide between their bench and the next. All the voice said was, ”Try suds.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet (1601)
”I BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR!” CALLED CAPTAIN ROSSI BACK TO THE interrupting voice, testily. BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR!” CALLED CAPTAIN ROSSI BACK TO THE interrupting voice, testily.
A figure appeared around the part.i.tion and the patterer recognized his friend Alexander Harris.
”I beg your your pardon,” Harris said to Rossi, after acknowledging Dunne with a nod. ”I couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation. It appears such a serious matter, and I believe I may be able to help you.” pardon,” Harris said to Rossi, after acknowledging Dunne with a nod. ”I couldn't help but overhear some of your conversation. It appears such a serious matter, and I believe I may be able to help you.”
”He is my good friend and an honest man,” said Dunne, introducing Harris to Rossi and the doctor.
”That may be,” said Rossi coolly. ”Still, the damage is done ... Very well. If you will swear to keep the problem to yourself, perhaps you can help. And, G.o.d knows, we need all the help we can get. But please, gentlemen, I beg of you-no more collaborators. If the governor ever found out ...”
And so Rossi outlined the task, once Harris had promised to be discreet.