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Authors: Robin Adair

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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
, 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
, which was regarded as the journal of record, and his evolving theory seemed confirmed.
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 Shelley, “The Mask of Anarchy” (1819)
 
 
 
 
 
 
O
N THE WAY TO CALL ON CAPTAIN ROSSI, THE PATTERER MADE A detour to
The Gleaner
. He wanted to see Dr. Halloran—who would perhaps have toothache—and, of course, he might find Miss Dormin there.
Neither seemed to be in, but, as he turned to leave, a man emerged from the composing room and called him back to the counter. It was his informant from the wayzgoose. Dunne recalled the man’s name: Muller.
The compositor looked around rather furtively. “You know, something else about that matter has come to me,” he said.
Dunne again noticed his German accent, which was now rendered more pronounced by some tension in the speaker.
“Well.” The man paused. “You recall showing me that galley proof? If you can wait about fifteen or twenty minutes, I’ll be finished and I can talk to you.” He held up one hand, and rubbed together his thumb and two fingers. “Might there be a …” He hesitated over the next word. “
Belohnung
?” His look was sly.
The patterer guessed at the meaning from the gesture, but he still waited until the man translated.
“A reward?”
Dunne frowned. “Unfortunately, I can’t wait now. Later, perhaps?”
“Come back in the morning.” The compositor shrugged. “Early, about seven-thirty. I’ll tell you then.”
Outside, fortune smiled on Dunne as his newfound friend, Billy Blue, sidled up with a strange story of an unusual group he had ferried during the night of the blacksmith’s deadly flogging. This story spurred Dunne to make a quick side trip to see Bungaree …
“ARE YOU CALLING me a liar, sir?” hissed Captain Rossi.
It wasn’t a very auspicious start, decided the patterer. “Not at all,” he soothed. “The fault was all mine that day at the Lumber Yard. You answered me truthfully. I simply asked you the wrong question—about the governor’s past involving the dead blacksmith.”
“Ah,” said Rossi. “And what makes you still think he has an old secret?” He looked slightly mollified, but his eyes were wary.
“The fact,” said Dunne, “that I know a new secret. He was in a position on that night to kill the smith. Or to have him killed.”
“Rubbish!”
“Well, it’s also incontestable that he was seen to attempt to kill another man that night.”
Rossi looked at him, aghast. “You’re serious!”
“Yes. I am. Deadly serious, you might say.”
Rossi sat in silence, staring at the patterer, then finally broke it. “Why would you think that I know any secrets about His Excellency?”
“You worked with him in Mauritius, very closely. And now you are a senior lieutenant here. And you have a known ability to sniff out people’s dirty linen. Didn’t you have a secret commission from the king, after his succession to the throne, to go to Italy and unearth evidence for a royal divorce? Were you not to be a witness, code named ‘Majorca,’ against Caroline?”
“Ah,
bella Italia!
” said the captain dreamily. “But”—he snapped back to the present—“of course, I can say nothing about such matters. Except to remark that it was an ill-starred match from the start. First cousins, y’know. Perhaps she should have taken the 50,000 pounds a year we—I mean the government, of course—offered her to go away. Do you know what he said after first seeing his future bride? Well, he said, ‘I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy.’ And later he told his sisters that she was ‘a perfect streetwalker.’ Not true. Ah, poor woman. It was she who had to escape—leaping over sofas!—from her father-in-law’s importunements.”
“You know a lot about our betters, as I thought,” said Dunne.
His companion sighed and looked at him in the eye. “More than you can imagine, lad, much more.” Then he clapped his hands briskly. “But enough of reminiscing. That was then, this is now. I agree that you and I now need each other more than ever. So, let us compare secrets. Mind, you must never reveal that I am their source. I will do likewise. If anyone knew what we had done, what sort of spies would we be?”
So Captain Rossi, in exchange for the recent secret Dunne had discovered, truthfully answered the question that Dunne could, and should, have asked days earlier.
THE PATTERER RETIRED that night pleased, but not completely so. So many people, it seemed, had the necessary motives, opportunities and abilities. But which one? Or ones?
AT PRECISELY SEVEN-THIRTY the next morning, Nicodemus Dunne arrived at the
Gleaner
office to find the front door unlocked. No one answered his hail, so he walked through into the silent composing room.
The compositor, Muller, was waiting for him, as promised. But he offered no greeting. He couldn’t. He lay on the ink-stained, dirty floor, choking on his own blood, a dribble running down his chin. His eyes were closed.
“Christ!” The patterer knelt and tried to lift the unconscious man’s head and shoulders, ignoring the blood that soaked his own hands and forearm. He saw the shallow rise and fall of Muller’s chest as his heart pumped blood into an ever-widening crimson bloom on his white shirtfront. The damage centered on a black-edged hole. Muller had been lung-shot.
Dunne’s knee stubbed on a hard object. He felt around until he found the obstruction. It was a pistol. He put it close to his face; it still reeked of burned powder. He pushed it to one side.
Muller’s face was pale and waxy, but suddenly his eyes fluttered open. He weakly grasped one of the patterer’s hands and pulled him closer, smearing more blood on him.
“Don’t try to talk. I’ll get help.”
The wounded man shook his head. “
Gott hilf mir!
” he whispered.
God help you, indeed, thought the patterer grimly.
Muller slowly licked his caked lips and tried again. Dunne caught the words as best he could. They came out—was it German again?—sounding like: “
Chaos … alter … die blutige Hand … Rache … Schwein … grün …
”
“In English, please,” urged Dunne. “
Englisch!
”
But the man had fainted again.
The patterer sat back on his heels, thinking furiously. With his smattering of rudimentary German, he had easily translated the appeal to God, but the other words? He thought
chaos
was the same in both languages, and that
alter
could mean “old.” And surely three of the words meant what they sounded like—“the bloody hand.”
Schwein?
All right.
Grün
: “green”—Madame? One to go.
He heard a groan and bent down. Muller’s eyes were open again.
“In English,” he asked quietly. “What’s
Rache
, in English?”
Muller gave a puzzled look then croaked, “
Rache
… is ‘revenge’ … ‘vengeance’ …” Then his eyes and features froze. He was dead.
Dunne gently laid the body on the floor and rose shakily. He picked up the pistol and examined it. It had become as bloody as its surroundings.
He heard a sound from the outer room. Thank God! Now he could send for help. His relief increased as he saw the newcomer clearly. It was one of Captain Rossi’s constables and he was followed by a soldier.
But his relief dissolved abruptly. The redcoat was aiming a musket at him, the mouth of the barrel yawning. The ten-pound weapon didn’t move and the seventeen-inch bayonet pointed unwaveringly at his heart.
“So,” said the man. “The tipoff was right. It was you all the time. Caught in the act! Hand it over. Slowly.” He pointed to the pistol.
Dunne handed it over.
The constable motioned to the soldier. “Take him down to the jail. Don’t hurt him, not before Jack Ketch can have a chance to top him.

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