Part 14 (1/2)

He reexamined every suspicion or ambiguity, no matter how slight. He studied the lists in his black book. And he trawled through the names of others who raised questions in his mind-notably the governor, whose past still puzzled him. And he had the germ of an idea about the agitating lawyer William Charles Wentworth, whose temper was always c.o.c.ked on a hair-trigger. Could blackmail perhaps be a motive?

Motive, opportunity and ability. Those were the prime detection yardsticks that had been drummed into Bow Street Runners since the days of the great policeman George Ruthven. So, who could have slashed, shot and poisoned physically powerful men-and, probably by the same hand, one woman, Madame Greene? And why?

To avenge Sudds seemed to be the logical conclusion, but Dunne was sure there was another motive, still tied to the 57th, yet to be revealed.

He knew, of course, that there was usually no science involved in solving a murder. Most killers were caught only if they were seen in the act or if they confessed due to remorse, betrayal or some undeniable physical clue. The smoking gun in the hand would fit the bill admirably.

The patterer also admitted to himself that if the killings were the random work of a cool and lucky lunatic, the cause was near hopeless. But if there were a pattern, he believed that finding the slayer of even one victim would unlock the secrets of the other cases. So, his only chance was to pursue any and all of the few slender leads his observations and instincts had provided.

He turned to the first name in the book: F. N. Rossi. Well, he had arranged to see the captain that evening; any questions would have to wait until then. In the meantime, there were other fish he could fry. With luck he might run across Miss Dormin at The Gleaner The Gleaner, although he believed she was spending more time at the dress shop since its mistress had been severely hampered by a fall.

He sought out Dr. Peter Cunningham and asked him outright: had his cryptic warning all those days ago to avoid the Rum Hospital implicated Dr. Thomas Owens? Dr. Cunningham's reply was oblique and unhelpful. He repeated his advice but still refused to elaborate, calling on his professional oath to confidentiality about his patients. But, wondered Dunne, by not denying outright that he was referring to Owens was the naval surgeon implicitly pointing to his colleague? Or was that reading too much into it?

Cunningham would add only one new idea on the subject: ”Consider cinnabar,” he said. ”And its implications.” At Dunne's incomprehension, he repeated the word and spelled it. Then, as once before, he nodded, turned on his heels and left his companion, who stored away their conversation then shrugged and moved on to his next line of inquiry.

The patterer and Captain Rossi had been interested in knowing the source of the a.r.s.enic ever since it had felled The Ox. And now they must almost certainly add Madame Greene to that equation. It was a common enough purchase. Dunne believed that artists even used it in their colors. And there was no knowing how long ago these recently lethal doses had been obtained. Perhaps years earlier.

The patterer suspected that the poison had come from an apothecary's shop ... unless, and that was an interesting idea, it came from another possible source: the hospital.

It seemed that Captain Rossi's constables had not turned up the origin of the poison, or else he would have heard. Or would he? How hard had they tried with such a boring, repet.i.tive task? Besides, these men were not keen Runners. Most had themselves been convicts and were not known for their vigorous pursuit of offenders.

Dunne weighed up the problem. If a constable had been directed to leave the police office in search of a suitable apothecary, how far might he have gone before losing interest or gaining a public house? The patterer decided the answer might well be, not far.

He sighed; there was no alternative. He should canva.s.s himself, from the far end of the town then backtrack. He would have to visit perhaps scores of druggists and chemists in shops and on the street, although he doubted if the handful of itinerant nostrum-hawkers dealt in a.r.s.enic.

At only the fifth call, he was lucky. At the first four shops, the attendants had sold no a.r.s.enic in the days leading up to The Ox's death. That information did not preclude earlier sales, but at least it cleared the air slightly.

But now he had a lead of sorts. Yes, said the shopkeeper, he had made such a sale on the date in question. He remembered thinking at the time that he expected the customer to buy not a.r.s.enic, but oil of cloves for toothache.

The patterer was intrigued. ”Why?”

”Because his voice was m.u.f.fled and he wore a scarf wrapped tightly across his face. But, no, he only wanted a.r.s.enic, he said, for rats.” The customer wore a severe black suit and had a wide black hat pulled low over his eyes, the druggist added.

”Did you know this man?” Dunne asked.

”Not then-but a few days later I did.”

”What happened?”

”He came in again-and once more I thought he'd want something for his teeth. He was still wrapped up around the face. But ...”-the shopkeeper looked pleased with his skill at diagnosis-”he clearly had facial boils troubling him.”

Dunne was puzzled. ”How did you know that?”

”Well, it's obvious, isn't it? He bought a lancet, and when I mentioned boils he didn't contradict me, did he? Of course, he could have had other uses for the lancet.”

”What made you think so?”

”Well, after all, he was was a doctor.” a doctor.”

The patterer felt a tremor of excitement. ”He told you that? What was his name?”

”I don't recall, but I didn't know him.”

”Was it Dr. Owens?”

The apothecary only shrugged. ”Whoever he was, he should have known better-if he didn't want toothache.”

”What do you mean by that?”

”Well, because of all those lozenges.”

Dunne was baffled. ”The lozenges?”

”Yes,” said the man patiently. ”The ones he bought. Two bags there were of them, I think. They can rot your teeth in no time.”

The patterer thanked the man and left. Come to think of it, however, Thomas Owens was not the only man who could have been the customer. There was another who dressed in clerical black and called himself ”Doctor”-Laurence Hynes Halloran.

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DUNNE DID NOT bother with any more apothecaries, but he still pursued other avenues of inquiry.

Nearby, in one of Sam Terry's buildings, in the rooms of the Australian Subscription Library, of which he was a member, he consulted a general dictionary and found an entry that steered him to a medical tome. The information contained therein made him raise his eyebrows.

The importance of parrots, which had flown in and out of his mind since the day of the fight at Jack-the-Miller's Point, had also gradually crystallized.

He made a visit to the parish offices of St. James Church, where he asked (as a representative of The Australian The Australian, not quite a lie) permission to consult the records of births, deaths and marriages. It took a while, but one entry yielded satisfaction.

A visit to The Gazette The Gazette, which was regarded as the journal of record, and his evolving theory seemed confirmed.

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AFTER ALL THIS activity and progress, Dunne was thirsty, but that was not the only reason he went into the Labor in Vain. It was here that the first soldier had been killed, but he knew this fact wouldn't put off that military man's more fortunate comrades in arms.

So, reasoned the patterer, what better place to pick up a soldier? No fresh-faced recruit would do. His quarry had to be a grizzled veteran who had been with the regiment fifteen or so years. For the price of a drink or two he might explain what both Alexander Harris and Captain Crotty had said casually.

And, indeed, the hunch paid off.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

I met murder on the way ...

-Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley, ”The Mask of Anarchy” (1819)

ON THE WAY TO CALL ON CAPTAIN ROSSI, THE PATTERER MADE A detour to The Gleaner The Gleaner. He wanted to see Dr. Halloran-who would perhaps have toothache-and, of course, he might find Miss Dormin there.