Heads turned when he entered. A noticeable pause, then the chatter resumed. He bought a beer at the bar and took a seat ata corner table, his back to the wall, a view of the whole room. He was shaking. Couldn’t stop his leg from bouncing up anddown. The air thick with tobacco smoke and mumbled voices, every now and then a burst of laughter, the floor sticky underhis feet. Henry didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know how this worked. Every now and then he caught someonestaring, but there was nothing inviting in their expressions, and again he wondered if he’d come to the wrong place. Theydidn’t look the type, truthfully. He would drink his beer quickly, he decided, then leave.
The door swung open and the man from the street corner walked in. He stood on the threshold, surveying the room. Short andfair-haired, his face freckled and piebald from too much sun, dressed much the same as the others in here: dirty trousers,yellowed shirt, a ragged woolen patchwork coat that fell almost to his heels. The drinkers looked him over then went backto their beers; the man’s gaze found Henry and stayed there. Henry shivered. He could certainly do better than this grub.Incredulously he watched the stranger approaching and prepared to turn him down flat.
“Mr. Wells, sir? I hope you’ll excuse me. Might we talk a moment, please?”
Henry was taken aback by the accent—he spoke like an English gent. At the mention of his name his thoughts turned immediately to blackmail, but there was something in the man’s demeanor than didn’t fit. He looked frankly terrified. He picked furiously at his nails. Henry guessed his age at roughly forty but he may have been younger—clearly he’d led a hard life. There was an odor of filth and alcohol about him, it must have been weeks since he’d bathed. He reminded Henry of the young men he encountered when he first visited them in jail: anxious, sad, lonely, desperate for Henry’s help.
“How do you know my name?” Henry asked.
“I will explain myself—please, may I sit down?”
“Why? What do you want?”
“Only to talk. And perhaps the comfort of a drink.”
“Talk about what?”
“I have a crime to report, Mr. Wells. A most terrible, terrible crime.”
“Then the police will be glad to hear it. Leave me alone.”
“I know who you are,” the man persisted. “I’ve seen you in court. All those trials you have won—you’re not afraid of them,are you, the authorities; black or white, you are only interested in seeing that justice is done.”
The praise mollified Henry. He leaned back in his chair. “Still, a crime must be reported to the police, which I am not, asyou are evidently well aware.”
“I can’t go to the police.”
“Why not?”
He glanced over both shoulders. “Because it’s the police who did it.”
“All right, I’ll indulge you—did what?”
“Slaughtered a whole tribe of Aborigines, way out in the bush. I would guess about a hundred. Not even the children were spared.”
“How on earth do you know this? Who in God’s name are you?”
The man snorted bitterly. “Sadly nobody, not in His name, not anymore. But I am trying, Mr. Wells. I am trying to make amends.I was a missionary, you see, once upon a time. My name is Francis Bean and I know what happened to the Kurrong people of centralQueensland because I was there, I saw it, saw them burning with my own eyes. And I did nothing except run and hide and havebeen hiding ever since. Until now. Now I am here to tell you the story, so that you can set matters right.”
There was a long silence between them. Henry sighed and told him to sit down. Bean’s face unknotted with relief and he threw himself into the other chair, knocking the table and spilling Henry’s beer. Bean looked at the spillage greedily. He touched a finger to his cracked lips. “How about that drink first?” he said.
Henry bought him rum, the cheapest they had, then went back and bought another after Bean threw the first one down his neck.He nursed his own whiskey thoughtfully, turning the tumbler back and forth, making a ring pattern on the table in the poolof spilled beer.
“You said you were there. Does that mean you were involved?”
Bean shook his head, swallowing. “We were witnesses. We’d met them before and then saw the aftermath. Like I said, we ran.”
“So you didn’t see it happen, this . . . slaughter?”
“You doubt me, sir?”
“I am a lawyer. I believe in facts.”
“If you’ll just let me tell you—”
“In a minute. First I want to know what I’m dealing with here. Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to?”
“Myself and my dear friend Matthew. Although not anymore.”
“What does that mean? Is he dead?”
“We are no longer on speaking terms, I am sorry to say.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“We parted ways some time ago. I have lost track of him since.”
“So there’s nobody else who can verify this story you’re about to tell me? It’s your word and nothing more?”
“They had two young brothers with them—McBride, their names were—from a town called Bewley way out west. Their family wasmurdered. Perhaps they’re still around. There were a couple of other white men, but I never got their names.”
McBride rang no bells for Henry, though it should have done. A family murdered in the outback ought to have made the press.He folded his arms doubtfully. “So it was a reprisal killing? But you said the police were involved?”
“The Native Police, yes.”
“I see. Do you know which officer was in charge?”
Bean glanced at him fearfully, eyes dancing around the room. “Noone. Inspector Edmund Noone.”
Henry nodded. “I’ve heard the name.”
“He’s here!” Bean hissed. “In Southport, just down the coast!”
“All right, calm down. Tell me, why are you only speaking up about this now? Why didn’t you report it at the time? What doyou have to gain?”
“Only to assuage my conscience, Mr. Wells. I did try to report it back then, told the local magistrate, though
