Golden Hope (59 page)

‘Clytie Hart, for once just listen to me, will you? I'm not a schoolboy. I'm a man. Not a monk. Before war broke out, scarcely a week passed when I didn't have a woman in my bed. A lot of fun on both sides – but there were no promises, no broken hearts. Now I'm breaking my promise to you – never to refer to our one “lost night”. The thing is, that night, I got it all wrong – back to front. No sweet words, no courtship. I jumped in headlong. Passion and lust first – romance flew out the window. God help me, I almost took you by force.'

‘No. I didn't fight you off, Finch. If it had been rape, I'd have you in gaol by now.'

Finch blundered on. ‘I just want you to know why I lost my head. I was scared – I still am. Don't you understand? I had never been
in love
before.'

Clytie stared at him in wonder.

Finch hurriedly restarted the car. ‘Now you know. I promise I shall never mention it again.'

He drove so fast that Clytie clung on to whatever was at hand as they turned each sharp bend in the road. Her thoughts were in turmoil.

What do I do? I can't possibly let sleeping dogs lie – after a confession like that.

•  •  •

The sun was an explosion of colour as they drove across the bridge that led to Main Street, past another tipsy signpost that read ‘Welcome to Hoffnung'.

With Main Street in sight, Clytie found her muscles tighten as she gripped the dashboard. She expected people to be transfixed by the rare sight of their horseless carriage. Instead it was a scene of confusion. Boys and girls were racing up the hill of churches, past a stream of adults and old-timers hobbling as fast as their feet, crutches or walking sticks would allow. All of them, young and old, moving at different speeds in the same direction – towards the cemetery.

‘Finch! Stop – something is very wrong!'

She stood up, trying to make out the cause of the commotion at the top of the hill.

‘There's a crowd gathered around someone's grave. I know that tree!'

Gasping for breath, she ran headlong into the wind, stumbling, righting herself and struggling on. Finch pulled her to her feet each time she fell. Strange, ominous murmurs came from the crowd around the grave.

Sergeant Mangles arrived at the scene and the crowd instantly drew back to allow him to pass. At sight of the children in the crowd, Mangles pointed to them in anger.

‘You kids have no business here. Go straight home to your mothers!'

Several shame-faced women departed with their children in tow.

It was then that Clytie recognised the person who had drawn them all to the scene. A woman stood elevated above the crowd, her head bent, her chin resting on her chest in a strange attitude of prayer.

She must be standing on a tombstone.

Finch tried to block Clytie's path. ‘Stop, it's too late. You can't do anything!'

He tried to turn her face away but she broke free and ran closer. And saw her.

Sister Bracken was not standing on anyone's tombstone. She was gently swinging in the breeze – her body hanging by a rope from the tree behind baby Robert's grave.

Sister Agnes Mary Bracken was not allowed to rest in peace.

Within minutes of the discovery of her hanged corpse swinging in the cemetery, rumours spread around Hoffnung like wildfire – that terrifying moment in a bushfire when the tops of gum trees ignited to send the fire leaping from tree to tree. The question in every mind was not slow to issue from every mouth. Was her death an act of suicide – or murder?

Clytie stood stunned, immobile, only half aware of Finch's presence by her side, as the townsfolk broke into groups between the graves. Broken phrases passed from mouth to mouth about the tragedy and what inevitably would follow – a coronial inquest. No funeral could take place until a coroner's jury reached its verdict. If it was suicide her body could not be buried in hallowed ground. If the verdict indicated foul play, the identity of the suspect could well be revealed at the inquest – and subsequently charged with her murder. No one in town would dare to miss out on the drama.

Aware of the dangerous outcome of Doc's confrontation with Bracken, Finch eyed Clytie, determined to shield her as long as possible. He tried to keep a firm grip on logic.

Sergeant Mangles ordered the corpse to be carried to the cellar of the Diggers' Rest.

‘Why are they taking it to the pub?' Finch asked Clytie quietly.

‘Ever since the Gold Rush that's where autopsies have been conducted – the cellar's the coldest place in Hoffnung.'

Clytie shivered at the lurid images that sprang to mind from several occasions when she had been sent down to the cellar on Mrs Yeoman's orders to bring up a special bottle of wine.

Doc was already on the scene. She was struck by the marked change in him as he followed behind the body. His face was haggard and grey, hardly surprising given he had worked closely with Sister Bracken in the Bush Hospital ever since his arrival in Hoffnung. Now, as the town's sole physician, he was faced with the duty of dissecting
her body. No doubt he would be closeted in the cellar overnight, emerging at dawn with a medical report.

Like automatons, Clytie and Finch followed in the wake of the ragged procession. From snippets of conversation around them they gathered that it was the usual procedure for an inquest to be conducted within hours of the discovery of a corpse, immediately after the arrival of the coroner from Bitternbird.

At the bottom of the hill they saw Counsellor Twyman addressing the growing crowd outside the Diggers' Rest. He kept stroking the gold watch chain draped across his vest, as if in his mind it had already assumed the importance in absentia of his long desired mayoral chain.

‘My fellow residents, today is a black date in Hoffnung's calendar. Action must be taken immediately to hold an inquest, but the new Coroner has not yet been appointed. As I myself am a Justice of the Peace I am authorised to conduct an inquest into a death that is by its very nature suspicious. Sister Agnes Mary Bracken must be treated with due honour and respect in death as she was in life. No doubt it will be necessary to call many witnesses. Therefore I shall conduct the inquest in the Mechanics Institute.'

Amid the rumble of uneasy assent, Clytie overheard the one-legged former miner Captain Kid's aside to his mate.

‘Trust ruddy Twyman to grab the top job. He never misses a chance to throw his weight around.'

‘Yeah, and give Doc a hard time into the bargain. He'd like nothing better than to run Doc out of town.'

‘Is Twyman powerful enough to do that?' Clytie looked anxiously to Finch for reassurance. She was reminded of Mary Mac's inference that Twyman had evaded a murder charge.

‘Who cares what Twyman thinks? He's an arrogant fool!' Finch gave a dismissive shrug but Clytie didn't buy it.

‘You know more about Doc than you're letting on, don't you? Why am I always the last to know anything? I'm not a child!'

‘All will be revealed soon enough – for better or worse,' Finch said enigmatically. His look of guarded intensity caused her to break contact with his eyes. He took Clytie's arm. ‘There's nothing more we can do right now. Doc will be virtually locked up overnight in the cellar.
No room for mistakes when it's a choice between suicide and murder. Let's get you home. You're shivering – from shock.'

‘My knees are a bit wobbly,' Clytie admitted, glad to feel the strength of his arm around her shoulders. She felt distinctly unnerved. Images of the dead woman, both in life and in death, were so vividly imprinted on her mind that tonight sleep would be impossible.

On reaching the darkened house, Finch dismissed her automatic response of hospitality. Instead he lit the kerosene lamp, seated her by the fire, and in swift succession lit the stove, made her a pot of tea and toasted bread on the toasting fork.

‘You must have been a regular little mother's helper,' she said, trying to stabilise herself and keep dark thoughts at bay.

‘I never had the chance. My mother died giving birth to me. As a child other kids taunted me that I had killed my mother.'

‘Oh my God, Finch, I'm so sorry.'

‘Ancient history,' he said. ‘The one thing that counts is what unfolds tomorrow. I don't trust Twyman to be an unbiased Coroner. I hear he's got a murky past himself – a reputation as a wife-beater.'

‘Worse than that, Finch. Doc performed the autopsy on Twyman's late wife – and refused to state her death was due to accidental causes. The Coroner and jury brought in an open verdict.'

Finch looked startled.

Clytie felt a fresh shiver of fear. ‘Do you think that miner was right? That Twyman's out to take his revenge on Doc?'

Finch tried to sound confident. ‘He won't get far if he tries dirty tactics. Doc's the town hero.'

He poured her a fresh mug of tea. ‘Don't get me wrong, Clytie. But after I've returned The Lady to Sonny, I think I should stand vigil here tonight. You go to bed. I'll sit by the fire with Shadow.'

‘Thank you, but I'll be perfectly all right.'

‘It isn't a weakness to admit you're in shock, girl. It's hard enough to watch someone die peacefully. Bracken's death was an ugly experience for anyone to witness.'

‘I know you mean well, Finch. But I need to be alone tonight.'

‘As you wish. I'll doss down in the barn. Call me if you need anything. There's no chance I'll sleep tonight.'

Clytie passed the night shivering with nerves in front of the kitchen stove, drinking tea in virtual silence beside Shadow. She failed to calm
her mind. Past words and images of the dead woman ran amok in her brain. Clytie felt that Doc was linked to her violent death in some way she was unable to fathom.

•  •  •

Next morning she discovered Finch had left the house ahead of her. She felt an unreasonable surge of annoyance to realise how contrary she was. She had rejected his help. Now, when she would have welcomed his presence, he had bolted.

Led by Shadow, she wandered alone along the main street, among groups of people who were locked in muted conversation, awaiting the arrival of the caretaker to unlock the Mechanics Institute. Moving between them she tuned into snatches of conversation. It was apparent that on waking a number of people had discovered notes placed under their doors during the night. Curiosity was roused to fever pitch as they read each other's notes.

Unable to fully decipher their contents, Clytie glimpsed enough to be reminded of Banjo Paterson's lines in
Clancy of the Overflow
. Some were indeed written in a semi-literate hand, as if with ‘a thumbnail dipped in tar'. Other notes pulled no punches about what had triggered Sister Bracken's death. Dead by her own hand – or foul play.

It seems I don't count – I don't even rate an anonymous warning.

Shadow took up his role as sentinel at the side of the porch. Clytie entered the Mechanics Institute to find it packed with men, women and a number of older children clearly excited by the prospect of seeing a murderer in their midst.

Clytie chose a bench at the rear of the hall, her back bolstered by the wall to gain a view of the proceedings without being an obvious target for speculation. She willed Finch to join her.
Forget what I said, Finch. I need you as a friend!

Seated a couple of rows in front of her was Goldtooth Fred. The deaf miner's Irish accent was penetrating as he briefed the town's recent arrival, the young Irish Catholic priest, Father Collins, about the history of crime in Hoffnung.

‘During the Gold Rush of the fifties and sixties it was a quiet week if there was no murder at the diggings. It was never a surprise when diggers disappeared overnight – their corpses found months later at the bottom of an abandoned mineshaft.'

‘Victims of “The Demon Drink”, no doubt,' young Father Collins offered philosophically.

‘Nothing of the kind, Father, bless you. Dead with a bullet in their brain or a knife in their back, they were. No traps for miles around in them days – no one to arrest criminals or lock 'em up. What choice was there but for us to mete out the punishment to fit the crime. Diggers' Rough Justice we called it.'

Father Collins seemed to search for an appropriate response.

Fred gave a nostalgic sigh. ‘Thems were the good old days, Father.'

The priest lowered his voice to be discreet. ‘I've not seen you at Mass, Fred. I trust you have made full confession as to any role you played in the execution of Diggers' Rough Justice?'

‘Ah, no need of that, Father. No disrespect intended – but I'm one of your heretics, a Proddie.'

The priest barely hesitated and offered his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, to be sure. Tell me, Fred, what is your opinion of Doctor Hundey, himself?'

‘You won't find a soul in Hoffnung who has a bad word to say about Doc, Father. As for Counsellor Twyman, it's hard to find a body who has a
good
word to say about
him
!'

Clytie smothered a grin but sobered, mindful of Finch's words last night.

The hall was filled to overflowing. Seated in the front row were the fashionable young Jantzens. Noni wore an ostrich-plumed hat, no doubt from ‘the Paris end' of Melbourne's Collins Street. By craning her neck Clytie identified a number of familiar faces, including the Bakers, Post Mistress Marj Hornery, Solomon Levi the watchmaker and Holy Maude with a row of daisies bobbing on her hat.

Clytie was surprised by the presence of the Yeomans and their staff – until she realised the Diggers' Rest must be closed until after the
ad hoc
coroner delivered his verdict. Other faces she recognised by sight. Seated on the aisle was the larger-than-life Captain Kid. The former miner's missing leg was replaced by a Blackwood stump, carved with the names and dates of all the miners who had died in accidents at the Golden Hope. Even from a few rows back she could hear his conversation with a man rumoured to be a journalist from the
Bendigo Examiner.
As Captain Kid was known to do for anyone
who cared to listen, he was singing Doc's praises for his heroism during last year's mine disaster.