The Cedar Cutter (34 page)

‘He's not. He's in the lockup. Jimmy Brown's pa brought him in last night. He's got to go up in front of the magistrate.'

That would be a bit difficult since Winchester was in Sydney. ‘They're just stirring you up, Ruan.' Children could be so mean. Once they found a weak spot they'd prod and pinch until … until something like this happened. ‘Mr Winchester isn't even in Wollombi. He and Mrs Winchester are in Sydney for the Governor's Ball. Remember? I made the pretty dress for her.'

‘They're back tomorrow and Carrick's going to hang. Jimmy's pa should know, he's the chief constable.' He flung away from her and wrenched open the back door. ‘Carrick didn't murder anyone. I know.'

‘Ruan, stop. Wait. Sit down and tell me what happened. I'm sure there's been some mistake. Let's go and sort this out.'

‘This is men's business, Mam.' He stood tall and dragged his jacket straight. ‘Slinger's in there, too.'

‘Slinger?' Jane froze, despair marring her face. ‘I'm coming.'

‘No, I need you to stay here.' There'd be no stopping Ruan, she could tell from the set of his face. ‘Jane, you stay here. Ruan can speak to Jimmy's father.'

She took her shawl from the chair and threw it around her shoulders. ‘Please, stay here.' She stared imploringly at Jane, who had to be as anxious about Slinger as she was about Carrick; however, if there was a problem, she wanted to know she'd be able to send Ruan home and have someone waiting for him. ‘Ruan and I will be back before long.' Of course they would. She'd take Ruan up to the lockup and prove Constable Brown's interfering son wrong and then they would come home and get to the bottom of this bullying nonsense. And after that, she'd have words with Mr Blackmore. What kind of a school was he running where his pupils were subject to such outrageous, malicious behaviour? Had the man no control?

Reaching out she took hold of Ruan's hand.

He snatched it back. ‘I'm right. You'll see.' He took off at a gallop.

Slamming the door, she followed Ruan. She wouldn't allow herself to even contemplate the possibility he could be right. Carrick and Slinger were far too wily to be caught by the constables and for what? A hanging offence? Cutting, even without a licence, wasn't a hanging offence. A fifty-pound fine, not the death penalty. The more she thought about it the more she was convinced it was schoolyard jabbering and tittle-tattle. And besides, if there were any truth in the matter Elsie and Maisie would have been the first to tell her.

‘Ah, so you've heard. Was just on my way to tell you.'

‘I'll thank you to mind your own business, Elsie Sullivan.' She pushed past, glowering. The glower wasn't merited, but Elsie's words had deposited a stone of doubt in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly she had this horrible sense that Ruan's story might be true.

Carrick wouldn't kill anyone. She'd stake her life on that. The locals always blamed the cutters for anything that happened. Elsie and Maisie were the worst. Ever since Carrick's fight with the Paterson cutters he and his team had taken the blame, and look what those Paterson men had done to the poor old native. Just because the cutters chose to deal with their own problems without involving the law didn't mean they had no morals. For goodness sake, Carrick was the most honourable man she'd ever met.

As she marched up the road Maisie appeared on the verandah outside the inn. ‘Roisin, Roisin!' She waved her plump arms, calling to her to cross the road.

Ruan ground to a halt and turned back to her. ‘See, Mam, I'm right. Everyone knows.'

‘We don't know, yet.' She grabbed his hand tight. ‘And until we do we're not taking any notice of this drivel.'

‘Carrick and his mate are in the lockup.' Maisie called across the road, just as Roisin reached the courthouse.

‘Will you stop meddling, Maisie Kidd?' She tossed her head and crossed the grass on the corner of the road.

Ruan sighed and pulled his hand away. ‘I told you, Mam. This is men's business.'

‘If it's men's business then why did you come home first?' Ruan's eyes widened and she snapped her mouth closed. What had possessed her to say that? Bloody Carrick O'Connor. From the moment he had swept into her life Ruan had become, become … damn him. She grabbed hold of Ruan's hand again, wanting her little boy back.

Lounging outside the courthouse, the two constables followed her progress, their legs propped up, enamelled mugs in their hands and supercilious satisfaction splattered all over their reddened faces. She'd put money on the fact they weren't cradling tea in those mugs, and they accused the cutters of being desperate sots.

She marched up the courthouse steps. ‘I want to see Carrick O'Connor.' No point in beating about the bush.

‘And what makes you think he's here?' Constable Brown raised one wild eyebrow and the corner of his lip in a smirk.

‘Jimmy told me,' Ruan piped up.

‘Oh, did he indeed? I shall have to have words with my son. This is police business, not schoolyard chatter. Why should I let you see the prisoner? Not his next-of-kin, are you? Doxies aren't allowed.'

Ruan took a step forward, his little fists clenched and his jaw tight.

The reason for the fight in the schoolyard suddenly became clear. It hadn't only been Carrick Ruan was worried about, he had been protecting her. She could imagine the comments flying around behind hands. Elsie and Maisie right in the middle of it. Ever since Carrick had slept the night away in front of the fire. Never mind the other night. A mixture of pride and pain intertwined and tightened around her heart for her brave boy. ‘So is Carrick here?' She slammed her hands onto her hips. If she had to wear the reputation, then she'd make the most of it.

Constable Brown took another swig of his drink and belched, leaving her in doubt about the contents of the tin mug.

‘He is. And the answer's no. You can see him after he and his mate come up in front of the magistrate.'

‘And when's that?'

‘Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, if Mr Winchester is back from Sydney.' A leer crossed his face and she clenched her fist as he ran an appraising eye up and down her body. ‘Before you and Jane get too busy, so you should be able to make the time.' The red-faced, pockmarked constable let out a great bellow of laughter.

It wasn't worth putting him straight and the information didn't merit thanks. Obviously, the scandal about her and Jane was rife in the town. ‘Come along, Ruan.' Keeping her head high, she stalked back down the steps. Ruan scampered after her, throwing half-formed questions revolving around doxies and Carrick, none of which she intended answering until they got home—if ever.

‘Mrs Ogilvie, might I have a word?'

Roisin stalled in her tracks, her blood icy as she turned.
Dankworth!
Gripping Ruan's hand tight she swallowed and composed her face. The air grew thick and close and the sounds of the town retreated.

‘Mam, you're hurting me.'

The pressure in her fingers registered and she relaxed. ‘You go, Ruan. Go now, straight home to Jane.' She pushed him away. Thank God she'd had the foresight to ask Jane to stay at home. She might have guessed Dankworth would be involved somewhere.

‘Do what your mother says, boy.'

Ruan turned and gawked at Dankworth, confusion painted all over his face. He was going to argue, and he opened his mouth to speak.

‘Now, Ruan. Otherwise you won't be able to see Carrick.'

He frowned, narrowed his eyes, then nodded and took off down the road. She waited until he had reached the corner and turned back. Now was her opportunity. She had every intention of standing up to this man. She'd waited too long. He was not having her son.

‘Mr Dankworth?' said Constable Brown.

‘I would like a word.' He cast a derogatory glance at the two constables, who stood like statues bathed in a sea of rum fumes.

‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.' Constable Brown held open the door to the courthouse and stood back.

‘A little privacy would be ideal. After you, Mrs Ogilvie.'

She cast one last glance down the street to ensure Ruan had gone home. He had. Maisie, however, stood on the verandah of the inn, her mouth gaping open. The scandalmongers would have a field day. So what? She didn't care.

It was cold inside the courthouse; she drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. How she wished she'd worn her green jacket. It made her feel courageous.

What did Dankworth want? Ruan, she knew that, but obviously he wasn't here to snatch the boy away. He'd sent Ruan home. Told him to go. She'd known from the beginning Dankworth would be back, though she hadn't expected him quite so soon. She had to stand up to him. Tell him no. She wouldn't hand over her son, not for anything or anyone.

He couldn't prove Ruan was his son and she wouldn't be intimidated. Some people might say she was mad or selfish or stupid even. Dankworth could provide for the boy, offer him chances and opportunities beyond her ability. At what price? The very thought of the life Ruan would lead turned her stomach.

Dankworth gestured to the chair in front of the desk and then circled the desk, running his long, bony fingers across the embossed leather surface. It was obviously Winchester's desk. Maybe the magistrate would help her, if she went to see Mrs Winchester and pleaded her case. Surely a woman would understand she couldn't lose her child.

He drew back the chair behind the desk and sat, legs stretched out in front of him, showcasing his highly polished black boots and his cane, tapping against them, beating the familiar, tedious tattoo.

‘My dear.' His affected drawl made her skin crawl. ‘I was rather hoping I would have the opportunity to be properly introduced to my son, but perhaps now is not the place or the occasion. He's a handsome little chap. Takes after his father.'

‘He is not your son.' It was a pathetic attempt, but she couldn't help herself.

His ominous laugh echoed in the small courtroom. ‘Apart from the fact he is the spitting image of me, I am capable of adding up time as well as the next man.' He rolled the cane in his hands between his legs. ‘Let me see. The boy must be about to celebrate his seventh birthday. He's well grown. I'll give you that. He can't have lacked for sustenance.'

Seeing Dankworth sitting there, so at ease, so in control, didn't intimidate her, it toughened her resolve. ‘No thanks to you.' The words were out before she could stop them. She clamped her teeth together.

He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘So you acknowledge then that I have a responsibility to the boy. It is one I intend to fulfil. With the utmost diligence.'

‘You're not having him.' She clenched her teeth, trapping the anger inside her, using it to sustain her. ‘Nothing on God's earth would force me to hand him over to you. Over my dead body.'

‘What about the dead body of your lover?'

Her head shot up. Her lover? She narrowed her eyes. The man was as slippery as an eel.

‘Come, come, my dear don't be so coy. Everyone, even the good constable, knows Carrick O'Connor is your lover and I'll not have that murdering Irish insurgent anywhere near my son.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' How did he know whether Carrick had been near Ruan or not? Dankworth had only been in town on the day he had picked up Lady Alice's corset, and Carrick had been out of town. When would he have seen them together? The local nosey parkers must have spread their stories far and wide.

‘My dear.' The sleazy smile on his pale face made her knees tremble.

She clenched her hands into fists, her nails puncturing her palms. His odour—tobacco and brandy and the underlying sour stink of unwashed skin—caught in her throat, choking her.

‘You hold his life in the palm of your hand.' He spread his fingers, the skin as white as milk, with nary a mark or blemish. Not like Carrick's hands, brown and scarred, rough and calloused, yet so comforting.

Why? How? The man was toying with her. ‘Speak plainly. Why is Carrick in the lockup and what has it to do with you?'

‘I am summoned to give evidence.' His oily, smooth voice sent a ripple of fear over her skin.

‘Evidence?' Good God, she was sounding like a parrot. She clamped her lips tightly together. Let the man talk.
Murder!
How could Carrick have committed murder? Who? Slinger was with him. What had they done?

Dankworth tipped his head back, squinting out of the window at the dazzling blue winter sky. ‘It's a beautiful day, is it not?'

The scream built slowly in her throat and she gulped it back. Nothing made any sense. She couldn't argue with the man if she didn't understand what he was talking about.

‘Much brighter than it is in the forest. There's little light once you're deep beneath the trees. Difficult to see and difficult to know who is there and who is not.'

A cool, calm stillness descended on Roisin as a flurry of goosebumps trickled across her flesh. She ran the soft, silky fringe of her shawl through her fingers and waited, waited for him to continue, the knot tightening in the pit of her stomach.

‘Of course, to be caught standing over the body of your victim is incriminating to say the least. Especially when three constables witnessed it.' He gave a dismissive snort as though he should hardly be bothering himself with such a trivial matter. ‘Once a criminal always a criminal. His reputation does precede him.'

‘Carrick has never murdered anyone. He has his Certificate of Freedom. He's an honest, upright man. He was transported to Australia for political crimes, not murder.'

‘Immaterial, my dear, immaterial. He will hang.'

Her temper snapped. This man would not manipulate her. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.'

‘And that is exactly why we are having this little conversation. You have it within your power to prevent this travesty of justice.'