Beneath the Southern Cross (24 page)

It couldn't be a burglar surely, he thought. What burglar would have the audacity to light the lamp? What burglar would close the door, denying himself an escape route? It had to be one of the servants.

Charles approached quietly, turned the knob, and the door swung silently open. He stood shocked, confronting the desecration of his study.

Paddy sensed, rather than heard, the presence behind him. He turned. Charles Kendle stood frozen in the open doorway.

Paddy held a yacht in his hands. The final model, the biggest one. With his huge hands he broke the hull in two. Then he crushed the mast, the boom and the spars. He shredded the canvas sails. And all the while he watched Charles Kendle as slowly, one by one, he dropped the pieces to the floor. Paddy was glad he had been caught in the act. This way he could relish the horror in Kendle's eyes.

‘They are irreplaceable,' Charles said, staring at the shattered remnants of his prized collection strewn at Paddy O'Shea's feet. He would kill the bastard.

‘I had rather hoped they would be.'

Charles stepped slowly into the room, wondering if the man would attack him, knowing that he would be no physical match for Paddy's bulk and strength, but he needed to buy time, to get closer to the desk where he kept the revolver.

‘You'll go to Darlinghurst Gaol for this,' he said. Even if Paddy had rifled the desk, he would not have found the Webley .476 revolver. The gun was in a secret compartment at the side.

‘I'll surely go to Darlinghurst Gaol,' Paddy replied, ‘if you can prove it was me. I'll have many an alibi to back me up.' And he would, his mates would stand by him.

Paddy felt no fear—Charles Kendle was no match for him physically. And far from raising the alarm, he was actually entering the room, allowing Paddy access to the door as he confronted him with empty threats. The man was bold, Paddy would give him that.

‘I came to rob you,' Paddy said, his eyes on the door, ‘but I must admit this has been far more satisfying.'

‘You'd leave empty-handed?' Charles had eased his way to the
side of the desk in the pretence of viewing the damage. He studied the tattered portrait on the floor, the image of his face ripped to shreds. ‘This is enough?' He edged his hand towards the hidden desk panel.

‘I helped myself to some of your wife's valuables upstairs,' Paddy said. ‘They'll suffice nicely, thank you.'

‘My wife's valuables!' Charles laughed. ‘You fool, do you seriously think I would let her strew her precious jewels about in the drawers of her dressing-room table?' That was exactly what Amy did, and a constant source of annoyance to Charles it was too, but he needed to distract Paddy's attention. ‘It's French paste she keeps upstairs,' he lied, ‘you'll be walking away with nothing.' He noted the flicker of annoyance in Paddy's eyes. ‘Her precious gems are locked in the safe behind that bookcase.'

It worked. Instinctively, Paddy glanced at the bookcase. Charles pressed the spring-loaded panel on the side of the desk. It slid back and he grasped the heavy revolver.

Paddy registered, from the corner of his eye, the sudden movement and turned to launch himself upon Charles, but stopped as he saw the gun aimed at his chest. He cursed himself.

‘Well, it seems you have the upper hand,' he said, assessing the distance between them, wondering if he could launch himself upon Kendle before he pulled the trigger. Impossible, the man's hand was steady, his aim direct. ‘It would seem that perhaps it's Darling hurst Gaol for me after all.'

‘Either that or I kill you.'

‘Not a wise move.' Paddy started to feel uneasy, there was a murderous intent in Kendle's eyes. Surely the man would not shoot him down in cold blood. ‘It would be very bad publicity for Kendle and Streatham,' he said, his mind racing. ‘The public would not relish reading that one of its most eminent citizens had killed a man. Even a burglar,' he continued, pre-empting Charles's interruption. ‘And if the burglar happened to be a family man, upon hard times as many are, and if the newspapers were to discover, as they quickly would, that the thief was kinsman to the eminent citizen …'

Paddy gave an eloquent shrug, aware now that Kendle was listening to him, assessing his every word.

‘Can you not see it?' Paddy urged. ‘To kill me would attract
notoriety; the name Kendle would be forever associated with the killing of an unarmed man, albeit a common thief. Sure, you'd not be guilty of a crime yourself,' he concluded, ‘but could the Kendle name afford such infamy?'

Charles studied Paddy thoughtfully for a moment or so, then smiled. The garrulous fool of an Irishman appeared to honestly believe he had talked his way out of death. Paddy O'Shea should have known that his life was over the moment he had destroyed Charles's priceless collection.

The Irishman had taken pleasure in tormenting him, now it was Charles's turn. ‘Infamy for shooting a madman who attacked me with a knife?' Charles indicated the knife which Paddy had left on the desk after slashing the paintings. ‘Notoriety for killing the man who brutally assaulted my wife? For Amy will swear that you did so.'

‘No, my friend,' he continued, ‘I will be neither infamous nor notorious, I will be lauded, and quite correctly so, as a man who protected his home and avenged his wife's honour.'

Charles had no intention of allowing the press to publish the events of this night. Paddy had been quite right in his assessment. Charles Kendle would go to whatever ends necessary to prevent such tawdry publicity. He would pay whatever it took. But it was too easy to simply shoot the man, Paddy must be made to squirm. ‘The press will ensure that the Kendle name, as always, remains a source of pride to those who bear it.'

Nervous sweat beaded Paddy's brow. Despite Kendle's reputation as a ruthless businessman, Paddy had not thought the man capable of murder. Charles Kendle was a proper man, a pillar of society. He never dirtied his own hands, he employed others to dirty theirs for him. As the steel-grey eyes mocked him and the gun remained steadily aimed at his chest, Paddy realised his mistake. Kendle was more than capable of cold-blooded murder.

‘I told you once you were a fool, Paddy O'Shea,' Charles said, ‘and I was right. You're a fool who has dug his own grave.'

In the second Charles pulled the trigger, Paddy threw himself forward. The bullet tore through his chest and he crashed to the floor. But he took Kendle with him, burying the man beneath his body as he fumbled for the gun. If this were to be his moment of
death, then Paddy was determined that it would be Charles Kendle's too.

There was sudden commotion about the house. The sound of footsteps racing up from the servants' quarters, a shrill scream from upstairs.

Charles fought to free himself from Paddy's embrace, but even in the throes of death Paddy was strong. The gun was wedged between the two of them, grasped in both their hands, the muzzle slowly turning towards Charles's throat as Paddy exerted every last ounce of his fading strength. Nearly there. Nearly there. His finger edged for the trigger.

Then numbness embraced him. Drained of strength, Paddy was powerless to resist as Charles struggled from beneath him. Powerless as he felt himself rolled onto his back to lie useless and spent like a landed fish.

Paddy looked dimly up at Charles who had risen to his feet, the gun in his hand. He saw that Kendle was covered in blood. His blood, Paddy realised. Their eyes met. Then Paddy watched as the muzzle was slowly raised and aimed at his head. I'm sorry, Dotty, he thought.

There was a scuffle at the door. Amy had arrived, the butler at her heels, and the two stood transfixed as Charles took aim. Slowly, methodically.

I'm so sorry, Dotty, Paddy thought. Then the gun roared and Amy screamed again.

The death of Queen Victoria on the 22nd of January, 1901, mourned though it was, heralded a new era of fashion and frivolity in British society. The Edwardian era. Following the stolid style and dull fashions dictated by the aged and widowed Victoria, the reign of Edward VII and his Queen, the beautiful Alexandra, saw some of the most exotic years in British social history. And the changes were reflected no less in the City of Sydney than they were in London itself.

Sydney had further reason for a sense of exhilaration, as did the whole of Australia. The Federal Constitution of the new Commonwealth of Australia had been proclaimed in Sydney's Centennial Park on the 1st of January, 1901 and on 29 March, following the first national election, Edmund Barton became the country's first Prime Minister.

It was an exciting time. The new century. Atime of social change, freedom, and a national pride fit to burst.

 

Benjamin Kendall, his eight-year-old son Timothy perched on his shoulders, stepped off the paddle-boat at Circular Quay and turned to assist his wife Norah from the gangplank. Then, arm in arm, they joined the milling crowd which surged its way to George Street and the markets and stores, taverns and tea gardens.

It was Saturday, a late spring morning, and Benjamin Kendall's twenty-ninth birthday. They were going shopping, he had announced the previous evening, but first they were going for a ferry ride on the harbour.

‘Tim's never been on a ferry before,' he had insisted, noting his wife's reluctance, ‘and there's a new paddle-boat ferry that does a round-trip.'

‘It would be good for the boy, I know that, Ben,' she'd said, ‘but perhaps you two should go on your own.' She patted the slight bulge of her stomach but he appeared not to notice.

‘What sort of a wife refuses to celebrate a bloke's birthday?' he argued. ‘I'd be better off going out with the mates and getting drunk, I would.'

She smiled, grateful in the knowledge that he wasn't serious. He was a good husband. A hard worker and an excellent provider. Benjamin's family was everything to him and he never drank away his wages as did many a Surry Hills man, leaving his wife sick with worry and wonder.

‘It may not be proper,' she said, patting her stomach a little more ostentatiously this time, ‘to parade myself in public.'

He laughed out loud. ‘Is that all it is? Why, Nellie Putman paraded herself till she nigh on dropped the thing in the middle of Riley Street.'

‘I'm not Nellie Putman,' she said primly, ‘and that's hardly respectable talk, Benjamin.'

‘No, you're not Nellie Putman, that's true enough.' Proud as he was of his neat and proper wife, Benjamin sometimes wished Norah was a little bit more like Nellie Putman. A stickler for convention, Norah's obsession with appearances was sometimes at odds with the neighbourhood, despite the fact that she'd lived in the heart of Surry Hills her whole life. It was a source of bewilderment to Benjamin. ‘But it doesn't show at all, love, my word of honour it doesn't. You're only four months gone, when all's said and done.'

He'd persuaded her and, her best blue woollen shawl tightly clutched around her shoulders and across her belly, Norah had enjoyed the ferry trip around the harbour as much as Timothy had.

Now, upon reaching George Street, the crowd spilled its various ways, some heading for the taverns of the Rocks, others for the trams to Redfern Railway Station or Victoria Park or the University of Sydney. Benjamin swung Timothy from his shoulders and, turning south, the three of them, hand in hand, joined the throng that strolled the pavements of the broad boulevard. The centre of
the street was a bustle of hansom cabs, traps and drays, as well as the omnipresent electric trams which passed relentlessly to and fro, ruling the road.

Beneath the endless verandahed shops they walked, pausing to admire a window display here and there. Past Martin Place and the stone magnificence of the General Post Office. Ahead loomed the massive dome of the Queen VictoriaBuilding and, just beyond, the towers of the Town Hall and St Andrew's Cathedral rose majestically above the busy streets.

Top hats and picture hats mingled with cloth caps and straw boaters, Sydney was a city for the people and a fine spring Saturday brought them all out to play.

Finally, they came to the new Kendle and Streatham store. It had been opened to the public only six months previously and Norah had never been inside, although she had read about it in the
Sydney Morning Herald
.

She stood gazing up at the chandelier in the foyer. ‘Electrically lit it is,' she whispered to her wide-eyed son who was equally impressed. Ahead was a huge oak-panelled staircase, on either side of which was a stand with signs pointing in every direction to every possible department, all spelled out in perfect copperplate.

‘Let's go and buy you that hat, love,' Benjamin said. ‘The millinery department, that's what we need.' He pointed to the sign which said ‘Ladies' Millinery and Haberdashery, First Floor'.

‘Can we ride to the top in the lift, Dad?' Timothy begged. ‘You said we could.'

‘After we've bought your mother a hat, I promise.'

But Norah had seen the sign to the right which said ‘Mourning Department'. ‘We'll go in here first,' she said.

‘What? “The Mourning Department”. Who's in mourning?'

‘For goodness' sake, Benjamin,' she looked around, hoping that nobody had heard, ‘everybody's in mourning. Now come along, Timmy, there's a good boy.' She took her son's hand and sailed ahead, Benjamin forced to comply.

Following the death of Queen Victoria, a special ‘mourning department' had been quickly established in Kendle and Strea tham's new seven-storey emporium. The citizens of Sydney having entered a period of respect for the old Queen's passing, mourning was big business, and decorative signs of reverence did a brisk
trade; black armbands, black plumes, ribbons and bows. ‘Widow's weeds', jet jewellery and garments heavily beaded with jet (the accepted trimming to signify the death of a loved one) were in such constant demand that ever-increasing stock was needed.

‘What are we doing here Norah? We came to buy you a hat, love, and some gloves, and a toy for Tim, we did. What are we …?'

‘Sssh Ben,' she said, keeping her voice low and respectful as the ladies in black glided by, guiding the reverent customers to the wares on display. ‘Show some respect.'

‘Who for? Dad's been dead nearly a whole year.'

‘For Queen Victoria,' she hissed, annoyed, ‘that's who.'

Like his father Samuel before him, Benjamin was an eminently practical man. He couldn't see the sense in wasting good money on a display of mourning for a person he'd never met. But it was easier to keep the peace, he supposed. Besides, if she dilly-dallied for too long, he'd take Tim off for a ride in the hydraulic lift, a prospect which excited Benjamin as much as it did his son. He'd never been in an hydraulic lift.

But Norah did not waste time. She herself was practical. In fact her sense of practicality was very closely connected to her sense of propriety. There were ‘specials' on display everywhere (discreetly labelled of course). She would be seen as a dutiful subject showing public respect for her deceased monarch, whilst at the same time availing herself of some very useful bargains which would no doubt be put to good use time and again in the future.

Gently, she fingered the black velvet armbands with matching hat ribbon and bow. She could certainly have used these over the past two years, she thought. First her baby, then barely twelve months ago Samuel Kendall himself. Samuel Kendall, Benjamin's father, as strong as a horse, who would have thought it? Dead, just like that. Bubonic plague. But then so many had gone the same way. The strong, the weak and the in-between. The plague did not discriminate.

Norah bought a set of armbands and hat ribbons for both herself and Benjamin, and a child's set for Timothy, careful to avoid those which had Victoria's insignia, or a profile of the Queen woven into the fabric. It would not be practical, and besides, the personalised sets were much more expensive. She insisted that they
all put on their armbands and, carefully, she tucked the ribbons, wrapped in tissue paper, inside her purse.

The hydraulic lift was slow and cumbersome and the operator clanged the doors open and shut in a ferocious manner. Norah did not enjoy the experience, but she suffered it—they had promised Tim they would go all the way to the seventh floor. She distracted herself by looking at the armbands, they had put her in a slightly melancholic mood anyway, so it was easy to allow their distraction. She wondered when the next family occasion would arise necessitating their use, and prayed that it would not be the child she carried in her womb. The loss of her baby two years previously had nearly destroyed her. Six months old her little girl had been.

Norah looked at Tim who guffawed with excitement each time the lift came jarringly to a halt and the doors clanged open. To think that eight years ago she had prayed for a miscarriage, prayed for her son not to exist. It had seemed the easiest way out at the time. Well, she had paid since then for such sinful prayer; the death of a baby had been the price. Norah pulled her shawl closer around her and shivered slightly although it was not cold.

They stayed in the lift for the downward trip, the operator rattling off the names of the departments and wares housed on each floor. At the third floor, when Norah heard the words ‘Toy department', she said, ‘Let's get out here. We'll buy my hat later, Ben,' she insisted. ‘Please. Let's get Timmy his toy first.'

Kendle and Streatham's toy department was a children's paradise. In the very centre, aglow with electric fairy lights, stood a carousel, its bright, bobbing wooden ponies inciting children to clamber aboard. On tinsel strands from the ceiling, fairies flew. Gnomes and goblins, pixies and nursery rhyme characters abounded, and everywhere shop assistants in fantasy costumes demonstrated the very latest ingames and toys and mechanical inventions.

At the far end of the floor was a special play section with slides and swings, and train sets for the boys and dolls' houses for the girls. Here parents were encouraged to leave their children under supervised care so that they could shop unhindered.

Young Timothy Kendall, having had three rides on the carousel, dived on the complex toy train with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old who had never seen such sophistication in the whole of
his life. It was impossible to drag him away so, assured by the attendant that their son was in excellent care, Benjamin and Norah set off to buy a hat.

Ladies' Millinery and Haberdashery, on the first floor, offered the latest trends in the new Edwardian fashion and Norah didn't know where to start. The picture hats were beautiful but they seemed too bold, too flamboyant.

She took off her own hat, careful of disarranging her hair which she had taken great pains to pin up that morning, and chose one of the more modest designs. It was still a little too colourful to be in good taste, surely. Although it was certainly attractive, she thought, self-consciously admiring her image in the oval gilt mirror. She looked very grand.

‘It looks ever so nice, madam,' the young assistant with the adenoidal voice said, ‘suits you to perfection.' The well-used phrase was trotted out with blatant insincerity, and Norah felt herself flush with embarrassment.

‘She's right, love, you look pretty as a picture,' Benjamin nodded encouragingly. ‘Let's buy it, and we'll get you some gloves to match.'

‘No, no.' Flustered, Norah was already removing the hatpin.

‘May I agree with your husband, madam, it is indeed a perfect choice.' Harriet Winterman materialised from nowhere. Doing her rounds, checking on staff with her ever-vigilant eagle eye, Harriet had noticed the ineffectual young assistant about to lose a sale. ‘You may go,' she said coldly to the girl, she would have her fired tomorrow.

‘Modern and stylish,' she continued, ‘yet modest and in the very best of taste. May I?'

Norah meekly allowed the woman to take the hatpin from her and, in the oval mirror, she watched as the hat was firmly but gently repositioned, the pin tucked securely in place and the blue satin bow at the front given a tweak here and there.

‘Yes,' Harriet gave a nod of satisfaction, ‘a most refined choice.' Too refined, she thought. She had picked them instantly as working class, the plain and tidy wife in the well-worn gloves, and the husband with his labourer's hands. Still, in these affluent times, it was the workers who spent the money, one couldn't afford to offend them. And he was certainly a handsome fellow, Harriet couldn't help observing. In a weathered sort of way. Sandy-haired,
rugged-faced, skin tanned from hours of toil in the sun, he was common, but there was an easy candid charm about him which was most attractive.

‘Your husband is obviously a man of taste,' she added, smiling at Benjamin with just a touch of flirtation.

Benjamin woman returned with a pair
didn't like the woman. He had registered immediately her condescension towards his wife. Norah, however, was most impressed. If anyone would know style, this woman would, she thought. Slim, straight-backed, perfectly coiffed and dressed in simple black, this woman was the picture of elegance.

‘We'll take it, shall we?' she queried a little breathlessly into the mirror, and behind her Benjamin nodded.

‘Of course we will, love.' Then brusquely he said to the woman, ‘Get us some gloves to match.'

‘Certainly.' Well, you couldn't expect manners from the working classes could you? ‘I shan't be a moment,' and Harriet sailed away with her nose in the air.

Norah was mortified. ‘How could you be so rude, Ben?' she whispered. ‘She's a lady, she's very refined.'

‘She's a saleswoman, that's what she is, and we're the ones who're buying.'