Miles Off Course (16 page)

“I’m afraid I have some business to attend to first,” Rowland said quickly. “I’ll look you up as soon as we get back.”

Abercrombie pouted. “I don’t know that I’ll be much safer in Sydney on my own. Perhaps I should stay here until you’re ready to go too. I could help you with this
business of yours… help you deal with this chap Moran.”

“I really think it’s best if you go.” Rowland reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He scrawled a name on the back and handed it to Abercrombie. “When you get
back, call on the Sydney Police Headquarters. Ask for Detective Sergeant Delaney—he’s an old friend of mine—I’m sure he’ll be able to help.”

“But…”

“Trust me, Humphrey,” Rowland said firmly.

Abercrombie sighed. “Very well, Rowly, if you’re determined to exclude me from this expedition of yours.”

“I am,” Rowland said, a little brusquely.

Abercrombie returned sulkily to his meal.

Milton leaned over to Rowland. “Delaney’s going to kill you.”

It was late afternoon by the time they returned to the Rules Point Guesthouse. After an initial period of petulance, Abercrombie seemed to buoy and became quite celebratory.
Luncheon turned into rather an extended affair peppered with reminiscences. Rowland had been inclined to truncate the conversation but Milton had refilled Abercrombie’s glass and encouraged
the Englishman’s revelations about life at Pembroke House. Consequently, it was well past three by the time they managed to extricate themselves, promising to catch up with Abercrombie in
Sydney. Once back at Rules Point, Rowland realised he hadn’t gone to see Wilson, but since he was now aware of the incident about which the manager wished to speak to him, he decided it was
probably no longer important.

Crowds had started to come in for the Sports Day. The perimeter of the guesthouse blazed with campfires, around which sat the men who couldn’t be accommodated within the hotel. The
atmosphere was already boisterous and loud.

“Looks like things are warming up.” Milton grinned, as he observed a clearly inebriated young stockman riding a horse out of the bar onto the verandah. Mrs. Harris followed him
brandishing a broom to a chorus of cheers and laughter.

“I’ll just walk Ed to her room,” Rowland said, as he watched the ruckus. “I’ll meet you chaps in the bar if you like.”

Another stockman was hurled out of the bar to applause.

Milton laughed. “Don’t be too long—we might need you.”

Despite the commotion centred around the bar, the accommodations maintained some order and decorum. The sitting room was crowded with women and children as well as the more consciously
respectable men. Rowland was much relieved. He was beginning to worry that leaving Edna alone amongst so many wild drunken stockmen would be ill advised. There seemed, however, to be some kind of
respectful line drawn through Rules Point dividing the High Country cattlemen from the more sober patrons.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Rowland started, as they stood by the door to Edna’s room.

“Of course not, Rowly.” Edna smiled. “I promised Sarah Brent I’d read her manuscript, remember? I’m quite looking forward to it—I’m sure it will be
brilliant.”

“What about dinner?”

“I’ll have something in here, I’ll be fine.” She stopped and regarded him sternly. “You will be careful won’t you, Rowly? Don’t let Milt get you boys
into a fight—you know what he’s like.”

Rowland laughed. “We’ll keep him in line. Enjoy your book, Ed.”

Getting into the bar proved to be quite the feat. It was full, as were the men within it. If it were not for the fact that Milton was in the middle of a
recitation—Wordsworth, though he failed to mention that—Rowland might never have found his friends in the overcrowded room.

“Rowly!” Clyde grabbed his shoulder as he pushed past.

Milton was, to Rowland’s surprise, playing to an appreciative crowd who encouraged his rendition with raised glasses.

“Keep at it, son. You ain’t no Banjo Paterson but it’s not a bad little ditty.”

Rowland shook his head as Clyde handed him a beer. “Who would have thought?”

Clyde quietly pointed out the gangs of men who mixed around the room: those who had come in from the snow leases, those who were locals of sorts, and transients who had arrived just for the
Sports Day. The distinctions in attire, stance and hygiene were sometimes subtle, but they were a map to where each man belonged.

“Have you seen Moran?” Rowland asked, scanning the room.

“Afraid not. Barman says he was in here earlier, but he took off.”

“Makes it easier to ask around, I suppose,” Rowland sipped his beer. Inebriated applause broke out as Milton finished reciting an ode to the daffodil. It appeared the men of the High
Country liked flowers.

A sudden clatter of chairs and startled swearing took the attention from the poet. Men jostled to retreat from something near the door. Milton, who’d been standing on a chair, was knocked
from his makeshift podium, and landed in an ungainly heap. Rowland and Clyde pushed forward towards him, only to freeze. The snake was within striking distance of the poet and it did not seem
inclined to withdraw.

T
he bar fell into a confused hush as Milton stared at the poised serpent.

“Don’t move,” Clyde warned.

There was a click as someone cocked a shotgun from atop the bar.

“For God’s sake…” Milton started.

“Don’t shoot! She’s one of mine.” A man stepped towards Milton. He was tall, his limbs long. A smart brown suit was tailored to his lean frame. The waistcoat was hung
with a number of gleaming medallions, which jangled when he moved. His beard was grey and untamed, and seemed to have accumulated all manner of twigs and leaves. He held up a hand for quiet.
“Just relax, son,” he said to Milton.

Milton didn’t look exactly relaxed, but he didn’t move.

The man squatted, sweeping his hand slowly from side to side. The snake’s head followed, its glittering eyes caught by the movement. The bar remained hushed, expectant, mesmerized.

Milton cursed and rolled as the old man sprang and snatched the snake by the tail, holding it at arm’s length. The reptile writhed uselessly, harmless now.

“Good on yer, Aug!” The cattlemen cheered as the man coiled the snake into a tackle basket and promptly closed the lid.

Rowland pulled Milton up. “Are you all right?”

Milton straightened his cravat before he answered. “No harm done. Good thing the old blighter knows how to catch a flaming python.” He walked towards the old man, who was still
fastening the buckles on the basket, with his right hand extended.

“Thank you, good sir. You have both talent and timing. Who may I say is my saviour?”

The man grinned broadly, revealing blackened gums set with crooked teeth.

“Professor August Eichorn,” he said, shaking the poet’s hand. “Don’t you pay Gladys no mind. She’s curious is all.”

“Gladys?”

Eichorn patted his basket. “Highly strung, the brownies… beautiful, but they can be temperamental.”

Unsure of how to respond, Milton introduced his friends.

“I take it Gladys is your… pet?” Rowland ventured.

Eichorn laughed. “Struth! Blimey, don’t be daft, son. She’s a brown snake not a bloody cat!”

“Yes, of course.” Rowland stared dubiously at the tackle basket which Eichorn hung on his belt.

“Gladys here’s a working girl, star of the show really.”

“The show?”

“Eichorn’s Deadly Dancing Snakes.”

“They dance?”

Eichorn grinned again. “In a manner of speaking… gotta watch more than your toes, of course.”

“You been bitten often?” Clyde asked.

“I’ve been bitten plenty, it’s a real crowd pleaser.” Eichorn reached inside his jacket. “Of course I’ve had this.” He held up a bottle.
“Eichorn’s Snakebite and Blood Poisoning Cure—excellent for bites and stings of all kinds; bruises, abrasions, bumps and scratches; cures irritations, sores, burns and ulcers;
perfect for the treatment of strains, sprains, breaks and aches. Been using it every day of my life.”

“You drink it?”

“No son, you apply it topically.”

“Well then, I guess I should buy you a drink, Professor Eichorn.” Milton took the bottle for a closer inspection.

“I wouldn’t say no to a whisky,” Eichorn said quickly.

“Allow me,” Rowland said, knowing the usual state of Milton’s finances.

“I’ll have a Scotch in that case,” said Milton. “We couldn’t let the professor drink alone now, could we?”

Rowland laughed. “No, we couldn’t do that.”

By the time Rowland returned with a bottle of whisky, Milton had acquired several bottles of Eichorn’s miracle elixir. “These might come in handy if we’re going bush,” he
claimed, as he held up the bottles.

Eichorn looked Rowland up and down, noting the superior cut of his suit. The snake handler’s eyes moved to Milton—velvet jacket, crimson cravat and hair which hung well below his
ears. “You boys don’t look like cow chasers…” He glanced at Clyde. “Well you could be, but you two…”

“We’re just up here looking for a bloke,” Clyde said smiling.

“Who?”

“Chap by the name of Simpson. He works for Rowly.”

“Simpson… hey, he wouldn’t be a blackfella would he? Big bloke…”

Rowland sharpened. “Yes, that could be Harry. Do you know him?”

Eichorn nodded enthusiastically. “Ran into him in Corryong a couple of days ago, came to a couple of shows.”

Rowland’s eyes narrowed. “Corryong? Did you talk to him?”

“Briefly, said he was going to follow the river, look for work. Those blackfellas love their rivers.”

“And when exactly was this?”

“Three… no, four days ago.”

Rowland shook his head slowly but he said nothing. They talked with Eichorn for a while longer and then moved into other conversations. The cattlemen, however, were guarded and they learned
nothing more about Moran or Simpson.

“Well, what do you think, Rowly?” Clyde asked, rolling a cigarette. They had retreated to the verandah which was only slightly less crowded than the bar. It was cold but the air was
clearer. Milton had stayed inside, sharing Wordsworth with the High Country once again.

“I don’t know.” Rowland leaned against the rail. “Eichorn seems to be the only one willing to talk to us, but I don’t know.”

“You think Simpson might just have walked like Moran says?”

“Not unless there’s something else going on with him.” He shook his head again. “I can’t see it.”

Clyde put the cigarette between his lips and struck a match. He didn’t press Rowland. For some reason the Sinclairs had an unusual faith in this particular worker. Who knew? Rowland
Sinclair was his best friend, but Clyde did not pretend to understand the upper classes. They were, at best, odd.