Out of the cell Henry staggered. Donnaghy followed him down the narrow corridor, the light from his oil lamp flickering, the guard whistling a jaunty tune, all the way to the lobby, where, in the gray light of daybreak through the open front door, Magistrate MacIntyre was waiting with Henry’s valise and briefcase at his feet.
“Sleep well?” MacIntyre asked him.
“Barely a wink.”
Henry couldn’t conceal his disdain. This man was no kind of judge. In any other courtroom Henry’s cross-examination of Noonewould have turned the hearing, yet MacIntyre had always intended him slipping the noose. Henry had so nearly had him. He’dfelt it, and a lawyer knows. But then Noone had gone on his rant and swung the gallery—Henry could almost respect such skills.In another life he’d have been quite the force at the bar.
“Well, count your blessings, at least you’re still alive,” MacIntryre said. He glanced at the bags at his feet. “I had yourthings packed up and brought over, and there’s a coach waiting for you outside, take you down to Charleville and the trainline.”
“Has Reverend Bean returned?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“You haven’t bothered to enquire?”
“The witness was your responsibility, Henry, not mine.”
“Will you look for him, at least?”
“I doubt it,” MacIntyre said, shrugging. “Where can we look? Where should we even start? My guess is he took off back to Brisbane—you’remore likely to find him than we are. Either way, I hope you don’t take offense when I say I’d rather not see or hear fromeither of you again.”
“This isn’t over.”
“Oh, I think it is, Mr. Wells. Go on now. Godspeed.”
Henry collected his bags, started for the door, then paused with his back to the two men. He wanted to say something, to havethe last word. Ask the magistrate how he lived with himself, how he was able to sleep at night. There was no point. Nothinghe could do or say would change anything, not in a town like this. They all lived with themselves quite comfortably here.They all managed to sleep just fine.
He arrived back in Brisbane four days later to find the story had beaten him home. Henry picked up a copy of the Post at the train station and stared forlornly at the front page. outback scandal! screamed the headline. city lawyer disgraced in misguided murder trial!
The reporter was Noone’s man, he realized. Of course he fucking was.
Chapter 28
Tommy McBride
The Ebenezer bells were ringing in the tower as Tommy led his horses across the fields, toward the little white stone churchfronting a hamlet of houses and barns. Somewhere he could hear voices, laughter, and the gentle sounds of work. Men handlingcattle, laundry being mangled, pots clanging in the kitchen as the evening meal was prepared.
A door opened in the front wall of the church and a man stepped out. He closed the door carefully behind him and walked tomeet Tommy in the clearing, and only now when the bells fell silent did Tommy wonder if they’d been for him, the strangerat their gates. He wasn’t badly dressed, to be fair to him, given the distance he had come, but he had a rifle on his shoulderand a revolver on his belt, and there are some things about a person no clothes can hide. He unhooked the rifle and droppedit in the long grass, lay the revolver alongside.
“I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
The man gave no acknowledgment. He halted a few yards away. He was white, wearing a simple beige collarless shirt, tan worktrousers, and despite all this grass and the risk of snakes, had open leather sandals on his feet. He clasped his hands infront of him, the left cupping the right wrist, and had the faraway smile of a simpleton, the kind of smile that in Tommy’sexperience gets a man killed.
“Can I help you, friend?” The accent was foreign, Germanic. “Are you in need of directions? Or perhaps shelter and a meal?”
“I’m looking for someone. Name’s Arthur. I think he works here.”
He didn’t even pretend to think about it, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “We have no man by this name on our station.I am sorry to disappoint.”
“Blackfella, old, big gray beard, missing a front tooth . . .”
The man smirked. “You are describing most of them here.”
“He wrote me with this address a while back. Arthur—you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Might be he’s going by a different name now.”
“What is your business with this man, can I ask?”
Tommy hesitated. How to put it into words. “We’re family, just about.”
The stranger considered him a moment. “This letter, may I see it?”
Tommy had it in his pocket. He handed it over. The man read.
“You are Tommy?”
“Maybe, once.” The man frowned at him. Tommy said, “Aye, that’s me.”
“Do you have any other identification?”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me the name of the farm.”
“Farm? What farm?”
“The name of the farm . . . please.”
It took Tommy a moment to guess his meaning. “Glendale,” he said quietly. “Glendale, it was called.”
The man bent to collect Tommy’s weapons then looked up grinning. “Come with me, Tommy. Arthur will be very glad that you arehere.”
They walked around the church into a yard, where people paused their work and conversation to get a look at who’d just arrived. Tommy scanned their faces anxiously, didn’t recognize Arthur among them. His stomach was churning. It had been seven years. And despite the letters, the gradual thawing, he didn’t know for sure how this would go. The priest—if that’s what the German was—waved someone over to stable Tommy’s horses, also handing him Tommy’s guns. “We do not allow weapons to be carried here,” he explained, and Tommy nodded vaguely, his attention still elsewhere. From a basket the man offered Tommy a chunk of bread and someone brought him a cup of water, both of which he accepted with thanks.
“You have traveled far, I think?” the man asked, watching him.
“You could say that,” Tommy replied.
Tearing off chunks from the bread, he followed the man’s
