“What’ll it be?” the publican asked him.
“Just give me the bottle,” Reverend Bean said.
* * *
He couldn’t be roused the next morning. Henry rattled the handle and banged on the door but heard coming from inside ReverendBean’s room the kind of choked apneic snoring only brought on by grog. Downstairs he thundered, found Horace clearing thebar, and snapped at him, “I told you no alcohol! He’s three sheets to the wind up there!”
Horace straightened. “There a problem?”
“I warned you yesterday. Said explicitly not to serve him a drink.”
“We’re a hotel, mate. Serving drinks is what we do.”
“But . . . he doesn’t even have any money.”
“Had plenty on him last night.”
This stalled Henry. It didn’t take him long. All this time together, sharing train carriages and sleeper berths . . . of coursehe had, the sneaky bastard. His anger deflated, he felt a fool. “Stolen from me, no doubt.”
“None of my business where he got it.”
“Please, don’t indulge him anymore. I assume you know why we’re here?”
“Word gets round.”
“Then you know how important it is I have him dry tomorrow.”
“I don’t give a shit either way, mate. I just want to get paid.”
Horace was making eyes at Henry and finally he caught on. He peeled a note from his money clip and handed it over. “So, wehave an understanding?”
“If you like.”
“Good, now, perhaps you can help me: I’ll find Magistrate Spencer MacIntyre at the courthouse, I assume?”
Horace chuckled. “If he bothers going in.”
“And if not?”
“The big house round the back there. Biggest one there is.”
“I’m obliged to you. And what about two brothers named McBride?”
A beat before Horace answered: “Never heard of them.”
“Really? Two young boys, their parents were killed?”
Horace shook his head, frowning.
“Oh, I see,” Henry said brightly, warming to the game. He peeled off another note from his money clip but Horace raised ahand.
“I never heard of them, I just told you. Look, I’d best be getting on.”
The barber gave him the same answer, and the waitress in the roadhouse café; people ignored his greetings but their eyes followedhim constantly around town. In the tailor’s he asked the proprietor how long he’d lived in Bewley and the old man told himproudly, “All my life. I was born in that back room.” But when he brought up the subject of the McBride murders the man’slips tightened and he shook his head. Henry didn’t push it. Clearly this was how it was going to be. For no good reason hecould put his finger on, he had assumed the locals would welcome this inquest, that they’d be grateful he had come. Uncoveringa hidden tragedy, rooting out injustice in their town. The idea now seemed ridiculous. At least it wasn’t a jury trial.
He banged on the doors of the courthouse and stood waiting in the oppressive sun—not yet ten o’clock and already the heatwas feverish and close. He dabbed his neck, knocked again, people brazenly watching from the street. Henry smiled and nodded;dumbly, they simply stared. They were a different breed out here, he was realizing. Simple-minded, truculent, docile. He hada new appreciation for Brisbane. It was the height of sophistication compared to this.
Nobody answered at the courthouse, so he followed an alleyway around back and on a large plot behind the main street foundthe magistrate’s house: an elegant, raised, white residence in the classic Queenslander style, not too dissimilar to his own.He climbed the steps and rang the handbell. Shortly, a maid arrived.
“Yes, good morning. Magistrate MacIntyre please.”
Laughter washed through from inside. Two men, it sounded like. The maid nodded and went back there and Henry heard one of them ask irritably for his name. Of course she couldn’t tell him—he’d not volunteered it and she hadn’t asked—and for the first time that morning Henry felt a small flush of progress. He might need to be cannier if he was going to get anywhere here. The speaker excused himself. There was a valise on the floor inside the doorway, good leather, monogrammed. The magistrate must have been entertaining a guest. Heavy footsteps along the hallway, then the door was wrenched open and a great walrus of a man was standing before him: flush-faced, wild-haired, bloodshot eyes, wearing a fine gray morning suit expertly tailored to his bulk. He scowled at Henry and barked, “Yes? Who are you?”
“Henry Wells, sir, out from Brisbane, for the inquest.”
MacIntyre shook his hand reluctantly. “So you’re the lawyer,” he said.
“Indeed. A pleasure, I am sure.”
“Are you now. Well, you’re early. Hearing’s not till tomorrow.”
He went to close the door but Henry blocked the way. “I thought it might be helpful for us to talk before then.”
“What about?”
“Everything. You received the reverend’s testimony, I take it?”
“Aye, only yesterday mind you.”
“I mailed it well before we left.”
“Things move slower out here, Mr. Wells, if you haven’t noticed.”
“My apologies. And my telegrams? You never replied.”
“No, well, I’m a busy man. Until tomorrow then.”
“Magistrate, please. I am at something of a loss here. There are significant gaps in my understanding of this case, mattersto which the reverend cannot testify. The McBride killings, for example—I found barely any mention in the press.”
“A private matter. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Again he tried to close the door and again Henry stopped him, wedging his foot against the sill. MacIntyre glared at him.
“You’re hardly helping yourself here.”
“Sir, I have every right to—”
“You have the right to fuck-all is the truth of it. What d’you think this is?”
“The
