Tamar (29 page)

‘Right then,’ he continued, very businesslike now. ‘And you’re otherwise healthy? No problems associated with the baby?’

‘I’m still bleeding a little but I gather that’s normal. My milk dried up. The woman who looked after me was very competent. I had a fever but she fixed that too.’

‘Yes, Maori know what they’re doing with their plants and herbs. You were lucky she was there.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘And, ah, the father of the child?’

‘In England, apparently. I’m not expecting to see him again,’ Tamar added.

Myrna interrupted, ‘The lassie needs to rest and recover, John, as I’m sure ye ken.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said John hurriedly. He stood up and gathered his hat and gloves. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

As he reached the parlour door he turned and looked again at Tamar. Although one side of her face was disfigured, she was still strikingly attractive. The scar was something that had been temporarily applied to her features, something he could remedy with a scalpel and needle. But had her experiences scarred more than her face? He glanced at her waistline, for the moment shapeless from carrying the child of a man who had not been her husband. While John realised he didn’t care what colour or race the child’s father had been, he did care about what had made Tamar break her marriage vows and commit adultery. Clearly life with the
mentally unstable Peter Montgomery had been hell, but he had a distinct feeling that in itself was not the reason she had taken another man to her bed. With a stab of grief, he saw she was no longer the woman he thought she was. Perhaps she never had been. Although he tried never to judge others, he realised with a feeling of acute sadness and loss that he
had
judged Tamar, and found her wanting; he still loved her, but he was no longer
in
love with her.

With dismay, Myrna saw all of this reflected in John’s homely, open face.

‘And Peter Montgomery?’ he asked from the doorway, pulling on his gloves. ‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Tamar. ‘And I don’t care, as long as he stays away from me.’

Riria knew where Peter Montgomery was.

After she had seen Tamar onto the train she headed south on one of the lesser-used bush tracks towards the Manukau Harbour, stopping for the night outside Titirangi where she left the cart, then continued on the following day until she reached Big Muddy Creek. Then, turning inland, she rode through the bush until she arrived at the outskirts of Huia, almost blinded as she rode directly into the setting sun. She settled down for the night in the dark, damp security of the forest. She was in no hurry.

The following morning she rose with the sun, had a rudimentary wash in a nearby stream, and watered her horse before she headed into the hills towards Peter Montgomery’s house. Not wanting to be seen, she picked her way through the bush, stopping frequently to listen for any indication of other travellers.

When she eventually reached the turnoff to Peter’s house Riria led her horse some way into the bush and tethered him to a tree. She would walk from here; she had no intention of accidentally
meeting the
Pakeha
pig on the rough, narrow track.

Reaching into her backpack she pulled out a short cloth
tatua
, then removed her dress, drawers, socks and boots, stuffed them into her pack and wrapped the
tatua
around her waist. It was a warrior’s garment, and covered her from her belly to her upper thighs. Now almost nude, she shivered slightly in the cool morning air. Her skin prickled with goose bumps but her long hair helped keep her warm as she withdrew a well-sharpened knife from her pack and tucked it carefully into her waistband.

It was approaching midday by the time she reached the house and concealed herself in the ferns opposite the front gate, almost exactly where she had lain when she had been shot. She fancied she could still smell her own blood in the damp earth.

There were no signs of life in or around the house and the curtains were drawn, although she saw the
Pakeha
’s black horse grazing in a paddock. She decided to wait until the sun was overhead before she ventured down to have a look around. Without his horse he would not be far away.

She lay inanimate for over an hour, watching and waiting. Then, just as she was contemplating moving, the sound of a gunshot reverberated up the small valley, rudely fracturing the silence. Riria jumped, then ducked her head and froze. Where had the shot come from? Inside the house perhaps, but she could not be sure. She remained motionless for another fifteen minutes, but the shot was not repeated.

I could lie here in these ferns forever, she thought angrily, exasperated by her fear. Very slowly she raised herself from the undergrowth and began to move stealthily back into the shadows of the forest, keeping as low as possible. When she was out of sight of the house she moved quickly through the trees parallel to the track for about a hundred yards, ran silently across the open space and into the bush following the fence line down the hill on
the eastern side of the house. She emerged from the trees towards the rear of the building. Keeping within the cover of the bush, she squatted on her heels and listened.

When she was sure there was no movement from within the house she withdrew the knife from her
tatua
and slid sinuously through the fence and ran lightly through the long grass to the back of the house. She waited there, her naked back pressed hard against the rough external wall of her old room, listening for some minutes, then very slowly extended her head around the corner of the house and took a quick look at the porch. It was empty and the back door was open.

Despite the cool air her hands were slick with sweat and she could feel it beginning to trickle in her armpits. Riria took a deep, noiseless breath and stepped onto the porch, wincing as a board creaked. She quickly lifted her foot, but still nothing moved inside the house.

As she stepped into the gloomy hall she became aware of a low moaning coming from the parlour. It sounded like an animal in pain but she stayed where she was, wary of some sort of trick. Very slowly she began to move again, the muscles in her strong calves and thighs quivering with tension. When she reached the doorway to the parlour she crouched down and peered into the darkened room.

The coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with stale cigarette smoke and spilt alcohol was overwhelming. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she was able to make out a crumpled shape on the floor. The moaning sound came again, louder this time.

Suddenly the shape on the floor moved and Riria saw it was Peter Montgomery. She leapt back and held her knife ready as he laboriously rolled over. Her eyes widened when she saw the pistol lying under the chair.

The upper portion of his left jaw, cheek and temple had been blown almost completely away, exposing the ragged remnants of several teeth and his tongue, and, higher up, something glistened wetly in the weak light. His left eye was pulverised, and his right eye stared fixedly at Riria. He mumbled indistinctly, bubbles of blood forming on his lips.

Riria approached him extremely warily, aware she was experiencing several conflicting emotions. The first was anger that he had already done to himself what she had come back to do and had robbed her of
utu
. The second was nauseating pity — at his inability to face the demons in his life and his even more obvious inability to shoot himself cleanly in the head. ‘
Hakawa
!’ she spat. ‘Only a gutless fool takes his own life.’

Peter held out a shaking, blood-spattered hand towards her. ‘End it,’ his eye seemed to beg.

In anger she kicked out at his arm and jumped away from him. ‘
Kao
!’ she shrieked, all of her pain, humiliation, fear and hatred coming out in the one short word. ‘
No
! Lie there and die,
Pakeha
pig! Like I had to lie there. Like you left Tamar to die!’

Peter’s one good eye closed and he drew in a ragged, liquid breath.

Riria untied the
tatua
from her hips, threw it onto the floor and began a wordless, wild war dance, or
ngeri
. She bent her knees and stamped her foot and slapped her full, high breasts and flat belly. She bulged and rolled her eyes grotesquely, then turned and displayed her buttocks. Her long hair flew as she whirled and hissed and bared her teeth and stood defiantly with knees bent, completely still except for her arms held rigidly out in front of her, palms flat and facing the floor, her hands quivering violently.

His bloody and shattered head lolling, Peter’s single eye stared straight at Riria as she straightened up and looked down at him, panting.

She saw he had begun to weep, a tear rolling slowly down the undamaged side of his face. Remorse, or just fear she would not finish him off? If she walked out of the house now he could take hours to die, alone and in agonising pain.

Riria’s vicious and insulting
ngeri
had acted as a conduit for her enormous rage and humiliation, and left her now with a vague sadness for this sick, ruined man. She felt emotionally purged and clean, knowing the weight of his sins would follow him wherever he was about to go, while she had been set free. She squatted beside him and picked up her knife and then the pistol, one in each hand, and raised her eyebrows. He nodded at the gun then closed his eyes in gratitude as she cocked it, placed it against the back of his head and fired.

‘May your God go with you,’ she said in English as Peter’s body spasmed once, then relaxed as he died.

Riria watched the pool of blood around his head grow rapidly wider for a minute until his heart stopped pumping, then said a short
karakia
in Maori to help his spirit on its way. She lay the pistol on the floor, then picked up her
tatua
and her knife and went out to the water pump. Some of Peter’s blood had splattered her and she was anxious to wash it off as quickly as possible, worried the blood from such an unhappy man may somehow taint her own spirit.

When she felt clean she retied her
tatua
, took one last glance around her, then headed back into the forest.

She could go home now.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

August 1881

A
little less than a fortnight later, Eliza informed Tamar there was a policemen and another man at the door wanting to speak to her.

‘Bring them into the parlour please, Eliza,’ Tamar replied apprehensively. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. And can you get Myrna?’

While Eliza ushered the visitors in, Tamar checked her hair in the mirror and took a deep breath. ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ she reassured her reflection, her heart hammering.

The two men rose from the sofa as she entered the parlour. One was dressed in the uniform of the New Zealand Constabulary Force but the other, an older man, was wearing civilian clothes. Myrna was already seated and was busy pouring tea.

‘Mrs Peter Montgomery, of Huia?’ enquired the older man. He had a full moustache, fashionable mutton-chop whiskers and shrewd, blue eyes.

When Tamar nodded he continued. ‘I am Detective Archie Childs of the Auckland Police. This is Sergeant David. I’m afraid we have some rather tragic news for you, Mrs Montgomery. It is with regret that I must inform you your husband Peter Montgomery was found dead at your home in Huia five days ago.’

Tamar blinked and waited for a surge of grief, or regret, but she felt nothing. She cleared her throat, feeling she should say something. ‘How did he die?’

‘He suffered a gunshot wound. Or several,’ replied Detective Childs. ‘We are not entirely sure what happened but he died around two weeks ago. His body was discovered by one of your neighbours, who alerted the local constabulary.’

There was a short silence while Detective Childs observed the newly widowed Mrs Montgomery. He saw she was not at all distressed; either that or she had extremely good control of her emotions. ‘May I ask when you last saw your husband?’

‘Around a month ago, if I remember rightly, I have been ill and my memory is not serving me well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Montgomery. Please forgive me for raising such a personal matter but I understand you were recently delivered of a child? Your neighbour’s wife advised Sergeant David you were expecting an arrival in June or July.’

Tamar glanced at Myrna who nodded.

‘Yes,’ Tamar replied. ‘The child died, soon after birth.’

‘My condolences.’ Detective Childs used a small pair of silver tongs to drop two cubes of sugar into his tea, looking thoughtful as he stirred. He looked directly at Tamar. ‘That’s a dreadful scar, Mrs Montgomery. How did you receive it?’

Tamar said without hesitation, ‘My husband assaulted me.’

‘And this was a recent assault?’ asked the detective. ‘Around the time your child was born perhaps? And would that also have been the last time you saw your husband?’

Tamar nodded, confirming what the detective had already surmised.

‘Was Mr Montgomery a violent man?’

‘He could be.’

‘We’ve talked to some of the locals and they implied Mr Mont
gomery was prone to excessive alcohol consumption, and his behaviour when intoxicated was aggressive and unpredictable. He does not seem to have been a popular man.’

Tamar said nothing.

‘It must have been frightening, living with a man with such unpredictable behaviour. Frightening enough for someone to want that behaviour to stop permanently, do you think?’

‘Was he murdered?’ asked Tamar, in genuine surprise and shock.

‘He appears to have been shot twice. Once through the side of his face, possibly by way of the mouth …’

‘
Suicide
?’ interrupted Myrna.

‘Perhaps,’ replied Sergeant David. ‘But he was also shot in the back of the head.’

‘Yes,’ continued Detective Childs. ‘The perplexing thing is that Sergeant David found the pistol behind Mr Montgomery’s body. It was positioned so far away in fact it seems unlikely he could have shot himself with it.’