Pritam stood, shambled to the presbytery, boiled the kettle. He felt as if he’d had no sleep at all. Sipping tea, he unplugged the telephone, plugged in the modem and switched on the church laptop.
Laine Boye had been right. If one dismissed Nicholas Close’s theories, boiled away all the speculation and happenstance, all that was left was one simple coincidence: Eleanor Bretherton looked uncannily like Mrs L. Quill. Pritam wished he could dismiss that as a fluke, but he’d seen John staring at Bretherton’s photo and turning pale. That was enough to warrant a bit of effort. He opened Google and started typing.
‘Eleanor Bretherton 1880s’.
The search revealed only one unhelpful curiosity: Macmillan had published a book by Mary Ward entitled
He dug deeper. He logged onto and searched the Anglican database. Then he rifled electronically through records at the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages. He emailed the Department of Immigration for information on how to secure lists of free settlers from the city’s founding in 1859. He searched the State Archives for shipping manifests, cargo allocations, passenger lists.
By a quarter to nine, he had found absolutely nothing.
More tea. A quick piss. Back to it.
‘L. Quill, Tallong’.
He made toast, chewed slowly, debated stealing a quick nap. Rain pattered again on the roof and tapped through the trees.
He typed: ‘Convict Ships to Moreton Bay’.
Three ships. One arrived twice; one three times; one just once. The
Pritam clicked
He clicked the hyperlink and the female convicts’ names appeared.
Eighth on the list was ‘Quill, Rowena’. ‘Trial place: Trim, Meath County. Crime/s: Fraud. Prostitution. Term: Life. Comments: Pardoned 1859.’
Pritam sat back in his chair. He was stunned. A quotation by Flavius Josephus crawled in his skull: ‘Now when Noah had lived three hundred and fifty years after the Flood, and that all that time happily, he died, having lived the number of nine hundred and fifty years. .’
His eyes stung from staring at the screen, but his heart beat excitedly. The printer — he had to find the printer. Nicholas and Laine would need to see this -
He looked up. Was someone calling him? He listened. Only the steady tocking of the clock, the whisper of drizzle. No.
Anyway, the printer. He’d seen it in the storeroom and -
‘Pritam?’
He froze. There was someone calling him from outside. He went to the sidelights and peered out. He could see no one. However, the church was on a corner block, so the visitor could be round the front.
‘Pritam!’ came the voice again. A man’s voice, and his tone was urgent. Pritam fetched an umbrella from the hatstand.
‘Pritam Anand!’
‘Coming!’ he called. He struggled to free the umbrella, accidentally pressed its button and it popped open, one rib jabbed him in the shin.
‘Pritam!’
He opened the door and hurried outside. The rain spat on the umbrella. He walked carefully along the slick path beside tall hibiscus bushes. The voice had come from the road fronting the church. There! He could see a figure on the opposite footpath. The man held an umbrella and leaned on a cane; his shadowed face was unclear through the drizzle.
‘Pritam?’
Pritam squinted. The man’s stoop was familiar. But it couldn’t be. .
‘John?’
Reverend John Hird stood on the other side of the road. He waved the walking cane he held. Beside him was a small suitcase.
‘They released me from the hospital! I’ve been trying to phone, but it’s been engaged all morning. Have you been downloading porn, you dirty black reprobate?’
Pritam smiled and frowned simultaneously.
‘But, John, you. . I saw you. .’ Had he dreamed Hird’s death? He was so tired, he wasn’t sure. . was this a dream?
‘Here!’ John waved him over. ‘Give me a hand.’
‘Okay,’ said Pritam, stepping onto the road. ‘But I don’t-’
The car hit him with a dull and meaty thud, and hurled him up the road. The driver slammed the brakes too hard and the car slid. . one locked wheel snagged Pritam’s leg and ground flesh and bone into the tarmac. Car and victim finally stopped. The rain fell blindly.
The old woman watching from across the road hobbled quickly away.
The kitchen smelled sharply of herbs and oils. In small, clean bowls were blue borage flowers, dandelion flowers, plucked waxy ivy leaves. In a glass bowl was maidenhair. In a mortar was a handful of poplar bulbs. Suzette lifted the heavy pestle and started pounding them into a tart, scented paste.
‘What are you making?’
Suzette looked up. Quincy was in the doorway.
‘I thought you were playing with Daddy?’
Quincy shrugged. ‘He fell asleep.’
Suzette nodded. Both she and Bryan were exhausted. They took turns watching over Nelson; neither was game to fall asleep unless the other was awake and watching the rise and fall of his chest. Nelson’s colour had improved, and his eyes flickered open from time to time, but he quickly slipped back into a hot, herky-jerky sleep. She and Bryan had made a quiet pact the day Nelson fell ill that they would not worry Quincy. Suzette knew the hex would pass and Nelson would revive, so there was no point making Quincy fearful.
‘So, what are you making?’ repeated Quincy.
‘Elephant paint. To paint elephants with.’
Quincy rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not elephant paint. We don’t have an elephant.’
Suzette smiled. ‘Do you want an elephant?’
Quincy thought about it. ‘Yes.’
‘It would have to sleep in your room,’ said Suzette.
‘Can’t it sleep in yours and Daddy’s room? It’s bigger.’
Quince, thought Suzette, would make a fine stockbroker. Practical mind.
‘No, Daddy’s allergic to elephants. It would have to be in your room and your bed.’
Quincy wrinkled her nose.
‘No elephants,’ she decided.
