3 Great Historical Novels (35 page)

Reeve was at least smart enough not to close the door on Calvin and Michael. He still had a purple bruise on his left cheekbone where Michael’s fist had connected with it.

‘Good evening, Mr Reeve,’ said Cal cheerfully.

The botanist merely scowled and turned his back on them, returning to whatever he had been doing. When they followed him into the room he was at his table, scribbling in a book with agitated strokes, his head hung like a sulky child.

‘Just a courtesy call,’ continued Cal, ‘to update you on my enquiry into your suspected criminal activities. I’ve had a conversation with a Mr Wardell. You might remember that he was the Government agent on board the
Rajah
. He seemed to think that you were in the vicinity of Laurence Blake’s cabin on the night he was murdered.’

That had Reeve’s attention. He looked up, worried.

‘Furthermore,’ the policeman continued, sitting himself down in the chair opposite the botanist, ‘he tells me that your passage was paid for with a bankers draft.’

Michael had not known this. He glanced sharply at Calvin who gave him an affirmative nod. The policeman had been doing some snooping around. That was his job, after all. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Michael?’ Calvin asked.

Michael was thinking fast. ‘There is. I’m wondering if whoever paid your passage also paid you to keep an eye on Rhia
Mahoney. I wonder if you were supposed to discover what, if anything, she knew about the death of Josiah Blake. Maybe you thought Rhia had something, a letter perhaps, that your boss wanted. You thought that she’d given it to Laurence Blake for safe keeping. You entered his cabin while he slept, hoping to find it and unwittingly – or witlessly – woke him. He might have grabbed you, you might have picked up the letter knife, intending only to threaten him, not to murder him. Either way, you panicked and killed him.’ Michael was thinking aloud, piecing together all the little details Rhia had told him. ‘Maybe it wasn’t an accident, because if word got out that you’d been snooping in a respectable passenger’s cabin, your hopes of station and wealth would have been instantly dashed. You searched his cabin and found the portrait and recognised one of the men in it.’ Michael hadn’t taken his eyes from Reeve, whose own eyes just grew wider and more startled. The open drafting book displayed poorly executed drawings of indigenous flora.

‘Of course I have a patron,’ Reeve said finally, ‘it is essential and normal in my profession. But his identity is a private matter and what you are accusing me of is utter twaddle.’ He didn’t sound convincing, or convinced.

Calvin nodded slowly. ‘
Twaddle
? You’d prefer to move into the barracks, then, than to give us a name? It must be rather a large boodle you stand to lose. You might find, eventually, that freedom is worth more.’

‘I’ve found it priceless myself over the years,’ Michael agreed.

Reeve looked as if he might retch. ‘You’ve not a scrap of evidence and I have nothing more to say.’

‘I don’t need evidence to arrest a man in Sydney, Mr Reeve. And I’ll guarantee you’ll have more to say, once you’ve seen your new accommodation. The idea of a lenient sentence might
seem more appealing in a few days. That’s what we offer here in return for a confession, for
names
. We make our own rules here. Think about that.’

Cal went to the doorway and called out to the two young constables who were waiting in the hallway. Michael watched Reeve. It was clear that he
was
thinking about it, because he had picked up his pencil and was scribbling so hard on his drafting paper that he tore a hole clear through it. When Calvin’s boys walked in – and they
were
boys – eager to have something to do to pass the time, Reeve threw down his pencil, looking piteously sorry for himself.

‘We’ll leave you with your escort, then,’ said Calvin. ‘Don’t worry about strapping his hands, lads, I saw you loading your pistols out in the hallway.’

As they walked back to Macquarie Street, past the Barracks, Calvin shook his head. ‘He’s someone’s lackey and he’s expecting to be saved, I’m certain of it. I’ll hold him on suspicion of murder for a while, until I can coax a confession out of him. It might not take so long before he starts missing his gentlemanly pretensions.’

Michael nodded. He needed a drink. ‘You lot are busy at the moment, aren’t you? Are they still keeping a watch on Mick’s?’

‘They are. I’m not planning on getting too involved, though it’s supposed to be my night off. There’s half a dozen armed men in an upstairs room at the Hare and Hound and my sergeant’s got more boys at the harbour. They’ve been waiting around all week and they’re getting restless. It’s all got to go off soon, unless they’ve managed to sneak past under our noses. We’ve even managed to borrow some of the governor’s soldiers.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to have a jar at the Hare and Hound, would it?’ Michael asked.

Calvin gave a long-suffering sigh, but Michael could tell he didn’t mind the idea.

The Hare and Hound, at the Rocks, was only a street away from Mick the Fence’s pine-board bungalow. They went in the side entrance of the tavern and straight upstairs to one of the front rooms. There were four men sitting at the table eating and smoking, and two at the windows, from where they had a reasonable view of the approach to Mick’s. Calvin had a quiet word with the two on watch before he and Michael left them to it.

The tavern downstairs was as ill lit and dingy as any public house in the Rocks, and the ale coming out of the barrel looked too thin. Rum was a much safer bet. They found a corner where Calvin’s uniform wouldn’t create too much interest and settled to wait.

Michael had been avoiding telling the policeman exactly how imminent his departure was, but he couldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. He’d thought about it, of course. He hated goodbyes, and besides Maggie, Calvin was the closest thing to a friend he had in Sydney. Once they were on their second measure of rum he decided it was time.

‘I’ve got a passage as ship’s carpenter on the next one out.’

‘Is that right?’ Calvin was silent for a moment. ‘Well I’ll be bloody damned.’

‘Aye.’

Calvin opened his mouth to say something else, but one of the men from upstairs sidled over to them and jerked his head in the direction of the road.

It was on.

They threw their smokes into the tin on the table and got to their feet silently. Calvin took his pistol from his boot and stuck it in his belt. ‘There’s just nothing like a good raid,’ he
said. ‘You’re welcome to join in, Michael. Think of it as a parting gift.’

Michael shrugged. ‘Why not? I should have remembered that you don’t have nights off.’

Three or four of the Port Authority constables were already under the shadowy overhang of Mick’s front verandah. It took a few minutes for the others to assemble, noiselessly, outside the rickety bungalow. The building was of an almost identical layout to Maggie’s, Michael noted, which was convenient, since he knew where the entrance to the basement would be.

It was agreed that an advance party of four men – Calvin, Michael and the two brawniest constables – would attempt to enter the building quiet as snakes, and spring a surprise on whatever was taking place in the basement. The other half a dozen men were to join them on a signal from Calvin, and were told to keep their firearms in their belts unless otherwise instructed. There had been trouble, recently, with
trigger-happy
boys who thought a smoking pistol was an accessory to their authority.

The operation ran smoothly. Mick’s basement was rigged out like a subterranean kitchen; a fire roared in the deep stone recess that had clearly been excavated for the purpose, and a crucible hung from an iron hook above the flames. The room was thick with smoke and fumes. Around the hearth stood several characters Michael recognised, including those three fools the Smith brothers. Their faces wore expressions ranging from incomprehension to alarm.

On a long bench against the wall were an array of files and other tools for removing silver, the shavings of which would be melted in the crucible. Some large brass scales sat on a spindle-legged table along with moulds and stamps. There too sat Mick the Fence. He was dressed for town, his ginger hair
and whiskers oiled and his houndstooth frock coat clean. He didn’t make a move. He knew the game was up. Several large tea chests, nailed shut, sat close to the bottom of the stairs, presumably waiting to be transported to the harbour.

‘Evening, gents,’ boomed Calvin merrily, as he and his men spoiled what looked like a well-run operation. There was a flurry of activity as the Smiths and another of the coiners tried to get past Michael, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He managed to detain two of them, one by the collar and another with a well-aimed fist. The other two made it almost to the top of the stairs before they met some constables descending. After an energetic scuffle, a good deal of cursing, a broken arm and two bleeding noses (one coiner, one constable), the job was done. Mick was still sitting, his houndstooth still immaculate.

One of the tea chests was prised open. It was brimful of shiny new guineas of such a grade that Michael let out a low, impressed whistle. ‘Your boss in London is going to be very unhappy. That’s fine coining all right.’

‘Thank you, gracious sir,’ said Mick, with a mock bow. He stood and took off his coat and folded it neatly. He’d been in the barracks before and he liked his threads too much to see them ruined. He had the quiet confidence of someone who knew the law as if he’d written it himself. He, like the botanist, thought his boss would get him off.

In the wee hours, Michael and Calvin sat with their boots resting on the verandah rails at the Port Authority, smoking. They’d just had a report that a small army of men from the George Street station had boarded the
Sea Witch
. Calvin poured another measure of his emergency rum into a tin mug and handed it to Michael. ‘We may as well finish the bottle now,’ he said. ‘As I was saying, I’ll be bloody sorry to see you go.’

‘I wish I could say I’ll be sorry to leave, but you know I won’t.’ Michael raised his mug and clinked it against Calvin’s. ‘But here’s to you, the finest chief constable of the Port Authority Sydney has seen.’

‘I’m the only chief constable of the Port Authority Sydney has seen.’

‘Aye. You’re the best hands down then. Well, here’s to you having as much of a lark on your night off next year.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

The two men sat together beneath the dark, deep arc of the sky, listening to the waves crashing on the Antipodean shore; lost in their own thoughts.

Michael was thinking about Annie. Would she still want him, after all this time?