“Maybe,” Tommy offered, for what else could he say? “He thinks the world of you, Dee, honestly, but the bush is all he knows.”
There were other things he would have liked to tell her. That she was as close to a partner as a man like Jack had, that he didn’t see other women anymore, not even a brothel these days. From summer to summer he lived chaste as a monk then was hers for a couple of months. But to imagine him in the city, a house, a regular job . . . Jack would rather find cattle work somewhere, anywhere, Dee or no Dee, than confine himself here. Of course, he couldn’t tell her any of it. None of this was his to say. Dee stirred her soup thoughtfully, a rueful smile. She asked after his own plans, he lied and said he had none, and she seemed to understand it was better for both of them if she didn’t know.
At the bank, like a parent visiting a sick child in the hospital, he demanded to see his money, as if to check it was stillalive. The bemused clerk tried explaining that it didn’t work that way, then relented for fear of Tommy causing a scene. Hewas shown into a side room, where they brought out his balance in cash—not the same crumpled banknotes he’d deposited butcleaner, newer bills. This pacified him a little. Like it was worth more, somehow. He began stuffing it all into his holdallas the flustered clerk jabbered about a letter of credit being more usual for such a large sum, but Tommy wasn’t having anyof that. He’d take his chances with cash. If anyone tried robbing him they’d have to kill him first, and what use would hismoney be then? He’d always been uneasy trusting the banks as it was, never mind walking out of here with a bloody promissorynote. Up north he’d seen shinplasters that dissolved no sooner than they’d been written, men left howling over how much theywere owed. So no, he was taking all his money with him, in cash, he told the bemused bank clerk.
If his plan was going to work, he would need every last penny he’d ever earned.
Chapter 23
Inquest
From across the district they came in their buggies and carriages, in the saddle and crammed into drays, a blockade of horsesand vehicles choking Bewley’s main street and spilling out into the scrubland beyond. A crowd jostled outside the courthouse.There wasn’t room for everyone inside. Revolver in hand, Donnaghy stood guard in the doorway, ordering them all back. A decentbribe got you past him. Or if you had the right name. Reddened faces shouting, spittle flying, while throughout town peoplemilled in the midday sunshine as if at a summer fair. There’d been a carnival atmosphere all morning: a quartet of singers,an accordion player, refreshment stalls and bunting, men let off work, children at their games. Beneath the tasseled parasols,sipping cups of flat lemonade, they mingled and swapped gossip about the proceedings, who they’d seen going in there, wholooked nervous or scared, while at the very back of the crowd a small group of native men, unwelcome in the courthouse—“Noblacks allowed!” Donnaghy had yelled—huddled at the mouth of an alleyway, not talking at all, their steady gazes pinned onthe building’s white facade.
It was shoulder to shoulder in the flagstone lobby, people squeezed in like battery hens. Some had brought crates to stand on, others climbed onto ledges or the clerk’s desk, all craning for a view of the courtroom through the open doors. Whispers were passed back from those in the gallery, through the lobby, and out into the crowd, embellished rumors that the parasol-carriers swallowed with their boiled sweets and lemonade.
Seats had been reserved for the witnesses and local dignitaries, such as they were in these parts, as well as for a pair ofnewspaper reporters who’d got wind of the inquest. One was local but the other was from the Brisbane Post, which when Henry Wells noticed, took him by surprise. Twisting in his chair at the front of the room—the table across fromthe empty jury box, the prosecutor’s side—anxiously scanning the faces behind, Henry vaguely recognized him, perhaps fromthe courts back home. He caught the man’s eye and nodded; the reporter returned the nod with a knowing smile. Too distantfor conversation—Henry would have liked to know who’d tipped him off. Still, he was glad to have him. He’d hoped to stir upsome press interest once the inquest was over, but here they already were. Which could only be a good thing. The scrutinyof public opinion, a dose of outrage on the coast, all welcome grist to his crumbling mill. Because Henry was going to needall the help he could get: Reverend Bean had disappeared.
He wasn’t there this morning when Henry had unlocked the door onto an empty bedroom, and he wasn’t at the bar or in the restaurantdownstairs. Horace hadn’t seen him. His bed was made, his suit hung on the wall hook, nothing was out of place in the room.The window was his only escape route. Closed but unlocked, and a good twenty-foot drop to the ground. Like a madman Henryscoured the town, but
