The Cedar Cutter (33 page)

Carrick's head snapped up. On the rise above him, almost invisible against the tangled growth, stood three constables in blue uniforms. The barrels of their guns trained on his chest. Slinger dropped the horses' leads and threw his hands in the air.

The hairs on the back of Carrick's neck settled. His body had known but his mind had ignored the warning. Too hellbent on the bloody cedar and years of planning to heed the signs. They'd fallen into the trap like a couple of novices. He scanned the faces of the three constables, recognising none.

‘Carrick O'Connor, cedar cutter. Show us your licence.'

‘Don't have one and I don't need one.'

‘Weren't cutting,' Slinger gestured, his arms falling wide.

The red-faced, pockmarked constable stepped forward, his chest thrust out like a bumptious cockerel. ‘Intending to by the looks of this.' He flicked his hand at the axes and crosscut saws on the packhorse. ‘Apart from the cutting there's the small matter of the dead man.' He inclined his head towards the figure half buried in the leaf litter.

Slinger turned to Carrick. ‘Dead man. What dead man? We ain't seen no dead man.'

There was little point in arguing the case. They'd got them stitched up well and truly.

‘Well?' The constable edged closer and prodded Carrick's chest with the barrel of his gun.

Carrick nodded. No point in trying to crawl out of this one. ‘We found him, down there under the cedar tree.'

Slinger drew himself up to his full height. ‘We cut no timber and we didn't kill him. We found him.'

‘You can tell that to the magistrate when you get back to Wollombi. He'll decide. If there's enough evidence, you'll be detained to await trial.'

‘Magistrate.' Slinger twisted and dived into the undergrowth.

Slinger was behaving like a fool. Right out of character. The sight of the uniforms had turned him into a blithering idiot. They'd have more chance telling their story to the magistrate. There were no witnesses. And the constables had known about the murder before they did, otherwise they wouldn't have been here. ‘Slinger, stop. We'll sort it out back in Wollombi. We've done nothing wrong.'

‘Bloody constabulary. Give me cutter's justice any day. They're all as bent as a two-bob bit.'

The constable squinted over Carrick's shoulder then twisted around, searching the shadows, as if seeking guidance.

A bullet whizzed past and embedded itself in the tree behind him. He whipped around and it was the same as before: a woollen-clad arm, the gloved hand holding a pistol.

He rubbed his hand over his shoulder, his brand itching, as if trying to remind him how easy it was to be caught out and set up.

‘Get a move on.' The constable prodded Slinger with his gun. ‘Come with me. We're going to pick up the body. Evidence. Take it back to town. You.' He flicked his head at Carrick. ‘Come here.'

Carrick stepped forward, with his hands out. The familiar weight of the cuffs locked around his wrists. The irony didn't escape him. He'd come full circle. Just when he was almost done he was back in irons where he'd started.

By the time the bedraggled party reached Wollombi darkness had fallen. One lamp burned over the courthouse and the constables led Carrick and Slinger around the back of the building, the overseer's body strapped across the saddle of the packhorse. The red-faced constable produced a large key and unlocked the chain looped through the handles. ‘Your accommodation, boys. Down the end on the left.'

Slinger's eyes darted around the walled enclosure and back to the heavy metal gate they'd arrived through.

‘Forget it.' Carrick headed into the darkened passageway, his cuffed hands in front of him. ‘We'll not get out of here in a hurry.'

The moon shone through the high, barred window, where two cells marked the end of the short walkway. He stuck his head in the first: the outline of a single wooden board was visible in the shadows. Moving to the next door, he peered inside; it was the same set-up except for a small high, barred window facing the street.

‘I'll take this one, Slinger.' At least with the window he'd see the passage of the stars and know what he was missing. He slumped down on the board suspended from the wall by two chains. The door to Slinger's cell clanged shut and the constable appeared in the doorway. He lifted the chain imbedded in the wall and locked Carrick's cuffs to it. ‘They'll come off in the morning when I bring you some tucker if you behave yourself. Best just lie down and get some sleep, that way the chains won't give you too much grief.'

Carrick grunted. Not much he could do. Through the thick sandstone walls he could hear Slinger carrying on a treat. He might as well save his energy until they came up in front of the police magistrate. Bloody Winchester, the Sydney toff.

What were the chances of the system here being anything different to Ireland? Winchester's reputation preceded him, never mind the prejudiced behaviours of the town constables. According to the Paterson cutters, Winchester even employed an official scourge. Given the choice he'd rather stick with cutter's justice—hard but fair.

He settled back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chin. The wind howled through the window, working its way into his bones. At least this time he'd not be coming up against the might of the British army. Not that it mattered. If found guilty it would be back to Port Arthur at best. At worst the death penalty. Slinger, too. Poor sod. This was not a situation of his own making and yet here he was taking the fall. And they weren't guilty. He rubbed his shoulder up against the wall, the old scar itching as it always did when his skin contracted with the cold.

If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he'd not believe it. What was the overseer doing back there and who'd been with him the first day? Holy Mother of God, what he'd give to be able to ask the man some questions. Too late now. Dead men couldn't talk.

‘Hey, Slinger.'

‘Yep.'

‘Any idea who the overseer was? Who he was working for? Who'd taken the land grant?'

‘Nope. More interested in getting something to eat and drink than worrying about him.'

The door to Slinger's cell rattled as he hammered it to and fro. ‘Oi, Where's our grub? We need rations. Food. You're meant to provide.'

‘Quit your moaning. You'll get breakfast, until then put up with it.'

‘Constable?' Carrick called.

‘Now what?'

‘Any idea who the dead man is?'

‘Thought you'd know that.'

‘Why would I know that, since I didn't kill him?'

‘What about your mate?'

‘Slinger. You know who the dead man is?'

‘Me? Nope.'

A draught of cold air whistled around Roisin's legs and the door banged. ‘Jane, would you drop the latch? The wind must have come up. The house is so warm, it seems a shame to lose the heat.'

‘I thought it was closed. I'll check.' Jane left her tatting on the table and wandered off. ‘I'll make a pot of tea while I'm there.'

‘That would be lovely.' Roisin studied the last row of stitches, sighed and started to unpick them. Her mind wasn't on the job. Even if it was only a set of pillowcases, the least she could do was make sure the work was perfect. In the last two days she'd lost interest in everything. Knowing Carrick would be away for so long had left her with such a feeling of emptiness, and she hadn't anticipated Ruan's incessant questions about the cedar cutter. She found it difficult to have to keep saying
I don't know
and
I hope so
. Even Old Pella had vanished, disappeared goodness only knows where, tracking his blind bunyip more than like.

She re-threaded her needle and attempted, for the third time, to sew a straight line. Perhaps it was just that the more mundane, bread-and-butter jobs didn't fire her imagination. Not that she was overly keen on making any more corsets. Knowing she'd encouraged Lady Alice to wear something to entice her husband and then discovering Dankworth was the man in question made her flesh creep and brought a bitter taste to her mouth. As though she'd in some way encouraged the vile man.

Not only that, if Lady Alice was barren, it made Dankworth's demands for Ruan all the more feasible. As much as she liked Lady Alice, she'd no intention of handing her son over to her. No matter what they could do for the boy. She'd rather he became a cedar cutter than a sadistic toff like Dankworth. At least the cutters had their own sense of justice and fair play. Ruan was
her
son. No one else's, although she didn't feel like that with Carrick anymore, not so possessive of Ruan. He spent so much time with him. It must be because he reminded him of Liam. The thought of Carrick losing his child and his wife still made her blood run cold.

‘Roisin!'

Sighing, she put down her stitching. Jane's voice sounded strained. Perhaps the old man was back, sicker maybe, although the bruises seemed to have healed. Jane's compresses of arnica had worked wonders.

‘I'm coming.'

‘I'm all right.'

That was Ruan's voice and he sounded furious.

‘Ruan!' She lifted her skirts and flew the last few feet into the kitchen. He stood in the middle of the floor, his clothes muddied and his hair standing on end. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?'

‘I'm not going to school anymore.' The set of his shoulders squared and he turned to face her, his nose bloodied and his cheeks splattered with mud.

‘What happened to you?' She reached out to pull him into a hug.

He shrugged her away and slapped at the cloth Jane held, thumping his hands on his hips. The anger radiating from his small body was heating the kitchen more than the cooking fire.

‘Let me see.' She knelt down in front of him. He'd been fighting, no doubt about it. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea for him to spend so much time with Carrick after all. The cutters always seemed to resort to their fists when things didn't go the way they planned.

He backed away from her, his eyes flashing. ‘I'm fine.' She'd never truly appreciated how green his eyes could be, although she'd never seen him this angry. His whole body seethed with a barely contained rage.

‘No, you're not.' She held out her hand for the cloth. Jane wrung it out and passed it to her. ‘Did you fall over?'

‘No!' He stamped his foot, eyes still blazing, then his lower lip started to tremble, giving him away.

What a fool she'd been sending him to school—swayed by Mr Blackmore and his wife's need for a new dress. He was too young. Too young to handle the other children. Just because he could read and write didn't make him capable of withstanding the horrors of the schoolyard. All those older boys teasing him. Her heart turned over and she wiped away the tear trickling down his dirty cheek. ‘I'm sorry, my darling.'

‘Not your fault.' He sniffed and turned his face from the cloth.

‘Come and sit down, let me fix up your face.'

‘I want to go.'

‘Go back to school? We'll think about that tomorrow.' Had Dankworth called at the school? No, that was out of the question. Everyone in town she'd asked had confirmed the fact. The Winchesters, Dankworths and Martins were in Sydney for the Governor's Ball, otherwise she'd never have allowed Ruan out of the house on his own.

‘Not back to school.' His voice caught and his little shoulders shuddered. ‘To see Carrick.'

She frowned at Jane, who shook her head.

‘Carrick? What has Carrick to do with this?'

‘He's in the lockup. He's going to hang. I want to see him.'

The cloth fell from her hands. ‘Don't be silly. Carrick's not in the lockup. He's away, cutting before he goes to Ireland. You know that, he left you his fishing line to look after until he got back. He'll be gone for months.' Probably even longer. How long did it take to get to Ireland and come back?