Beyond the Horizon (2 page)

Part One

1918

Death and Destruction

1

T
he elegant sandstone building bedecked with climbing ivy was one of the finest houses overlooking the beautiful harbour of Sydney. Time and technology had changed it only slightly. Where horse stables once stood, there were now garages for cars; but the sweeping gravel driveway still saw the arrival and departure of the city's most notable residents, all come to visit George Macintosh, heir to the vast financial empire of his forefathers.

George Macintosh was well known as a philanthropist, and it was rumoured that he would eventually be knighted by the king for his services to Australia's war effort. Such was his public persona; those close to him saw beyond the veneer of respectability and knew him to be a man with ruthless ambition and little empathy for the suffering of others. Those who knew him even more intimately dared not openly speak of their suspicion that George had had a hand in the murder of his own sister in his efforts to gain sole ownership of the many and varied lucrative Macintosh companies.

It was midmorning and George sat in his library perusing the daily paper and reading the grim war news. Not so grim for him, of course. If Germany won the war he had much to celebrate, as his secret investment in their chemical industries would prove very profitable and he would be viewed by the Kaiser's Germany as a good friend. He could at least thank the war for taking the lives of his stupidly patriotic father, Patrick, and his brother, Alexander, thus eliminating them from any control of the Macintosh empire.

George flipped through the paper to an article about how the infamous fighter pilot, Manfred von Richthofen, aka the Red Baron, had been shot from the skies over Australian lines. A Canadian fighter pilot claimed the victory but so too did Australian machine-gunners firing from the ground. Who really cared? George sneered, flipping the paper closed and reaching for a cigar.

He snipped the end and lit the cigar in a cloud of blue smoke. There had been a time when George had looked down on smoking and drinking, but that had changed in the last couple of years. Perhaps he indulged in both vices because his wife, Louise, did not approve of such practices, and he took pleasure in spiting her. Their relationship might appear sound from the outside, but within the confines of their home it was a different matter. Louise had had an affair with Sean Duffy, the former war hero and Sydney solicitor, and while George would never forgive her this, he certainly wasn't going to allow her to undermine the respectability their marriage brought him. He had threatened to keep their toddler son, Donald, from her, and Louise had very sensibly decided to end the affair and remain by George's side.

There was a timid knock on the door of the library.

‘Come in,' George called and the door opened to frame his young housemaid. ‘Mr Dwyer is here, Mr Macintosh,' she announced and slipped quickly away.

‘Come in, old chap,' George said, not bothering to rise from his comfortable leather chair to welcome his solicitor. After all, the man worked for him and was paid well. George had arranged the meeting at home so as to ensure absolute privacy.

Mr Dwyer entered the library, clutching a leather briefcase with apparent nervousness.

‘Take a seat,' George said. ‘Would you like a drink?'

‘No thank you, Mr Macintosh,' Dwyer answered carefully.

George got up and poured himself a tot of Scotch, then sat down behind his desk. ‘What news of my father's will?'

Dwyer flipped open his briefcase and spread legal papers out in front of George. ‘The will has been authenticated,' Dwyer sighed. ‘It seems he must have had a portent of his own death and rewritten his will before his untimely demise. It appears that the first will has been superseded by the one that Major Sean Duffy produced, naming him as sole executor.'

George swallowed the tot in one gulp, placed the empty tumbler on the desk and stared intently at his solicitor. ‘So where do I stand?' he asked in a cold voice. The fact that the probate matters were in the hands of Louise's former lover made the alcohol sour in his guts.

‘You are to share the control of the companies with your brother Alexander's son,' Dwyer answered after clearing his throat. ‘It appears that Brigadier Duffy stipulated that your sister-in-law, David's mother, is to manage his interests until he turns twenty-one and assumes shared control himself. In the event that she is unable to manage her son's affairs, the brigadier has nominated his solicitor, Sean Duffy, to do so.'

George could not sit still: he rose from his chair and walked over to the large window overlooking the driveway and gardens. He stared out onto one of the flowerbeds, where an old man was hunched over pulling out weeds. His brother's son was like a weed in his perfect garden, George mused angrily. If only he could dispose of him as easily as the old man was disposing of the garden weeds. And what was to stop him? After all, he had reached halfway across the world to have his sister, Fenella, murdered.

‘Where does that leave my son?' George asked without turning around.

‘Er, um, Donald assumes his control of an equal third when he turns twenty-one,' Dwyer answered and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘On your demise, the family companies come under the dual control of your son and that of your late brother. However, you are a man of good health, Mr Macintosh, and I am sure you will be at the helm, guiding your son and nephew, for a long, long time to come.'

George turned, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Thank you for your briefing, Mr Dwyer,' he said in a flat voice.

‘If that is all, Mr Macintosh, I will pay my respects and return to the office,' Dwyer said, placing the papers back in his briefcase and rising from his chair. ‘Before I depart, I should alert you to a matter that will arise at the next directors' meeting.'

‘What matter is that?' George asked sharply.

‘It appears the auditors are puzzled by a large amount of money that was transferred to a Swedish bank account last year without authorisation from the board. They are nervous as the bank has a reputation for dealing with the Germans and fear that if such a transfer were to leak to the newspapers it would raise embarrassing questions. I'm sure there is a simple explanation but I thought I should warn you that the matter has been added to the agenda.'

For a brief moment George experienced a chill of fear. The money had been used to purchase shares in Germany's chemical industry, which in turn had produced some of the horrific gas weapons being used against the Allies. Many Australian soldiers had died or been crippled by those gases on the Western Front. It would look bad, George knew that, but he was a businessman and such morality had no place in the making of money. After all, were not some of America's biggest industries doing the same thing?

‘Thank you for the warning, Mr Dwyer,' George said calmly. ‘Your information confirms you in my eyes as the best legal representative in this town.'

Dwyer nodded once and then left.

George slumped into his leather chair and stared at the wall. In the hallway the old grandfather clock chimed eleven. That damned will and testament had turned up in the mail weeks earlier, after a tortuous voyage from the battlefields of France. It had arrived long after news of his father's death. His gaze fell on a barbed spear adorning the wall and for some reason he recalled that there was a story in the family of an ancient curse brought down on the Macintosh name after a horrific slaughter of Aboriginals living on land now known as Glen View Station. But that had been over fifty years ago and George knew it was nothing but a silly story handed down by his superstitious great-grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh.

George poured himself another Scotch. After lunch he had a meeting in town with the police inspector, Jack Firth. Firth was well known and feared by the city's criminal underworld for his ruthless disregard for the rules of evidence; he preferred to manufacture his own evidence to ensure successful prosecution. But he was a popular figure in the press for his apparent clean-up of the streets of petty criminals. He was a colourful character, built like a brick wall, and even in his early forties he was a man who could handle his fists in any street brawl.

George was slightly concerned that his key ally in the military intelligence world had been abruptly returned to his previous duties in criminal policing. This was a move that had pleased Detective Inspector Firth as he had never considered gathering intelligence about the German and Austrian residents of New South Wales as anything but a pointless diversion. Jack Firth was happiest hunting real criminals in the seedy back streets of Sydney, but his unexpected transfer niggled at George as it seemed to smack of distrust. Had the intelligence agencies smelled a conspiracy between him and the police officer?

There was one advantage to having the policeman back on his old beat and that was George was once again able to collect useful information about his business competitors – which of them kept mistresses, which visited prostitutes on Saturday night and then attended church services on Sunday as respectable members of the community. George wanted to know all the seamy details – after all, you never knew when that kind of information would come in very handy indeed. Today George would ask Firth to investigate Major Sean Duffy; the man must have a few secrets in his past worth knowing about.

*

Sean Duffy had never liked being referred to as ‘Major'. He was a solicitor, and the choice of profession had been opportune for a man who had lost both legs fighting on the Western Front. But the people he worked with were proud that they had a genuine war hero in their ranks and wouldn't let him be plain Mr Duffy. He tried to take it in the spirit which it was meant – and he was grateful they were prepared to overlook his occasional bout with the bottle. Several times he had faced up in court bleary-eyed and hungover, leaning on his walking stick even more than usual. He still managed to deliver sharp and incisive defence rebukes to the prosecution arguments.

Sean was still a young man with a lot of life ahead of him, but when sleep came to him at nights he would relive the hell of trench warfare, crying out, his body covered in sweat and jerking as if he had been electrocuted. It was perhaps fortunate that Sean slept alone in his flat in the city. The last person to share his bed had been the wife of another man – George Macintosh – but Louise had broken off their affair for the sake of her seeing her son and Sean had retreated to his work and the relative peace that came with too much alcohol.

It was early afternoon now and many workers were returning from lunch to open shops for the day's trading. It was a pleasant autumn day and smoke lay as a haze over the city from the tanneries and other factories along the harbour shore.

Sitting in a chair beside the window in Sean's office was Harry Griffiths. Harry had lost an eye in the trenches. He had been a Sydney policeman before the war and the stipend he received from Sean for gathering information kept his small family off the streets. Harry was a big, tough man in his mid-thirties and he was fiercely loyal to Sean, who had saved him from a life of petty crime and destitution.

‘Well, Harry, what have we got on the Morgan case?' Sean asked and Harry took a small, crumpled notebook from his jacket pocket.

‘The shopkeeper couldn't have seen Morgan in the street that night,' he said. ‘The streetlights were out.'

Sean smiled. ‘Good, there goes the positive identification of Morgan as the one who broke into his shop.'

‘Morgan is a good bloke, boss,' Harry said. ‘He was one of us at Fromelles.'

Sean had developed a reputation for defending former servicemen who had returned to a world indifferent to their suffering. Many carried the unseen wounds of war in their heads and turned to alcohol for relief. Some had slipped into petty crime to pay for the drink that kept them sane. These were shadow people, disregarded by those who had done well out of the war.

‘Any decorations?' Sean asked.

‘He got an MID for Fromelles,' Harry said, referring to his notes. ‘He was a battalion runner.'

Sean knew from personal experience how dangerous it was to be a runner in the trenches; they were often exposed to rifle and shell fire getting vital messages between headquarters and the front lines. A Mentioned in Dispatches was not a high award but it would show the magistrate that Sean's client had proved himself serving his country.

‘Good. We can use that,' Sean said.

‘There is one other thing, boss,' Harry said with a frown. ‘Word on the streets is that Firth has returned.'

‘Is that going to be a worry for us?' Sean asked.

Harry's frown deepened. ‘We both know that he works for George Macintosh. There's history between you and Macintosh and I reckon he's out to get you.'

Harry was too polite to mention Sean's brief affair with Macintosh's wife, although they both knew that was the ‘history' he referred to.

‘I think you need to be very careful,' Harry said, leaning forward slightly to push home his point. ‘I can get you a pistol.'

‘That won't be necessary, Harry,' Sean said with a smile. ‘I have my cane.' It doubled as a weapon, with a deadly spring-loaded blade inside the stick.

Harry didn't look reassured. ‘I still think you should carry a pistol. I can get one of those small .38s from an old mate who imports them from the Yanks.'

‘I'm right, thanks, Harry,' Sean said. ‘Besides, I have you around to watch my back.'

Harry's frown turned into a beaming smile at this acknowledgement. ‘If there's nothing more, I'll see what else I can get in the Morgan case.'

‘I'll inform Mr Morgan that he owes you a beer for all your effort in his defence.'

‘I swore to the missus that alcohol would never pass my lips again,' Harry responded sheepishly. ‘It has improved the situation with the family.'

Sean rose awkwardly, grasping the cane tightly, and held out his hand to Harry. ‘Good to hear. I'll tell him he owes you a bonus, then.'