Shadow of the Osprey (44 page)

F
our items lay side by side on the desktop: a letter, a half-empty glass of gin, a loaded revolver, and its cleaning kit of rods and oily rags.

Fiona sat behind the desk in her husband's library and stared at the gun. It was her father's Tranter which, after his death at the end of a Darambal spear, had been returned to the family in Sydney by the new station manager.

It was a deadly weapon in the hands of an enraged person and it was the letter from a woman who now lay in a morgue that had fired Fiona's deadly rage. Gertrude Pitcher had described the events that had occurred in the very library where Fiona now sat waiting for her husband to return from his club. The letter had concluded with a heart-rending plea for forgiveness for the terrible betrayal of trust. She could forgive the former nanny but the same could not be said for her husband's abominable crimes against their daughter.

But Fiona also experienced the same guilt and despair that had driven the nanny to suicide. Why had not she seen the signs? Why had not she been alert to her daughter's suffering? She now realised why the nanny had submitted her completely unexpected notice to terminate her employment and understood Penelope's insistence on placing the former employee in a new house. It was not that the woman had been bad – just another victim of her husband's innate evil. Just another life sacrificed to satisfy his absolute disregard for human decency. Somehow Penelope must have learned of Dorothy's plight and coerced the nanny into resigning. Penelope had not told her as a means of protecting her from her own dangerous rage. Well, her cousin's good intentions had come to nought, Fiona thought bitterly. Not for her cousin's need to protect her, but because as a mother she had failed to protect her own flesh and blood.

Fiona's rage was tinged with an icy-cold reasoning. Hers was not the despair of a guilt-driven woman pushed to the point of suicide. She had been born a Macintosh and the inner strength of her illustrious warrior ancestors came to the fore. She had turned her guilt and initial despair into a rage for vengeance.

Fiona lifted the pistol from the desk and curled her fingers around the butt. Her older brother Angus had many years earlier shown her how to load and fire the gun. It was a cap and ball revolver where each of the chambers required loading with gunpowder, a wad and a lead ball. She could see the lead balls at the open ends of the chambers and knew it was ready to fire. All she had to do was point it at her target and pull the trigger.

She placed the gun on the desktop and raised the half-empty tumbler of gin. It tasted bitter. She would kill her husband and tell the police that he had accidentally shot himself whilst cleaning the gun. Why should the police suspect her; they were the perfect couple when they appeared together in public.

She realised, however, that the story of accidental death was fraught with danger; she must shoot him at close range. She had once read that powder burns were essential to prove the proximity of the shot and, coupled with the close range of discharge, understood that he must die from one shot only. Any more than one shot would destroy her feigned, grief-stricken story of finding him dead by his own hand. That she was alone in the house with the servants out on errands at least meant that no-one else would be involved to witness for the police. She would simply play the distraught wife and wear black.

The lazy tick-tock of the big clock in the hallway outside the library came to her like the booming of ocean breakers; but the distant sounds of horse hooves on the street was a soft clop-clop that was strangely reassuring. It was as if the world was completely unaware of what was about to happen.

Fiona heard the clattering noise of Granville's coach on the gravel driveway. She reached for the pistol, surprised at how calm she was feeling considering that she was about to slay her husband. In her mind his claim to being her husband and his daughters' father had been forfeited the moment he had abused Dorothy. She was resolved in her mission when she remembered the words in Gertrude Pitcher's letter. They helped keep her nerve as she listened intently for the coach to rattle away, vaguely conscious of everything around her, including little things she had once taken for granted. Even the click of the front door being opened seemed to drift to her at the top of the stairs as something unique.

There was a brief moment of silence when she could feel her heart pounding in her breast. The ominous silence was broken by the sound of Granville's footsteps on the stairway. Her hand trembled as she levelled the gun at the doorway and she was forced to grip the revolver in both hands to steady it as the library door was opened and Granville stepped inside.

His eyes took time to adjust to the dimly-lit interior of the library. ‘Fiona!' he gasped when he became aware of his wife's presence – and of the gun pointed at his chest. ‘What in damnation are you doing woman?'

‘I am going to kill you Granville,' she hissed, watching as he blanched in terror. Their eyes locked and he saw the absolute determination in her eyes. He was struck speechless and stood frozen in the open doorway. ‘I am going to kill you for what you have done to my daughter and probably for all the death and misery I know you have caused throughout your evil life,' she added in an icy tone, her hands no longer trembling.

‘Why? What have I done to deserve this?' he finally croaked as Fiona stood up and walked around the edge of the big desk to plant herself before him. Not once had the barrel of the gun wavered.

‘At first I was only going to kill you for the shame that you brought on my daughter,' she said calmly. ‘But I think I am doing this just as much for my beautiful brother David . . . and God knows how many other innocent people's lives you have destroyed over the years.'

‘What are you talking about?' Granville pleaded. ‘What do you mean about David?'

‘I know in my heart that you had him murdered,' she replied with an edge of sadness. ‘I had always tried to tell myself that you were not involved despite my mother's insistence that you gave orders to Captain Mort for my brother's death. But my time with you has confirmed beyond any doubt in my mind that my mother was right.'

‘Your mother is a mad woman,' Granville spat. ‘She is out to do you harm.'

‘Not I,' Fiona answered. ‘I can see that now. My mother is a woman not unlike myself. And like my mother I know that I am capable of killing you here and now.'

Granville had a fleeting thought of another time and place. Many years before he had wondered if his wife had any of the characteristics of her mother. He had always feared Enid and now knew that his fears were justified. Fiona indeed had all the characteristics of her ruthless mother. All these years he had been living with another Enid Macintosh. But his terror was rapidly being replaced with an animal cunning to survive. ‘If you kill me,' he said licking his lips, ‘you will surely hang for murder and that will be a shame your daughters will have to live with. No, dear wife, you will not shoot me. Your sense of family honour is too strong.'

‘You will go to the desk and sit down,' Fiona said, ignoring his attempt to appeal to her fears. ‘There is a letter on the desk I want you to read.' If he was sitting at the desk when she shot him, her story of his accidental death would be more believable when the police arrived.

Granville glanced suspiciously at the desk then back at his wife. ‘Reading a letter has little relevance to my life if you intend to kill me,' he replied. For a brief moment he found his attention drawn to the revolver in her hand. He had not wanted to even look at the deadly weapon but something had clicked in his mind when his eyes roamed over the Tranter. ‘But I do not think you are going to do that.'

The sudden change in his attitude alarmed Fiona. Here was a man who knew a secret unknown to her. A dangerous secret, one which would threaten her safety. ‘If you give me the gun of your own free will, I might not thrash you to within an inch of your life.'

They faced each other a pace apart and Granville stepped towards her. Fiona raised the loaded revolver uncertainly and levelled it at his chest. She had not wanted to kill him in the doorway; that would be harder to explain later. But his sudden threatening movement forced her to pull the trigger.

Just an empty click as the firing pin connected with the chamber!

Fiona felt a stinging pain as the back of her husband's hand caught her savagely across the face. The force of the blow sent her reeling across the room and she slammed against the wall displaying the Aboriginal weapons taken after the dispersal. With a clatter, the spears, shields and fighting sticks fell around her as she sat on the floor stunned by the blow. Her head was awash with red sparks, and she was vaguely aware that Granville was standing over her with the Tranter pointed at her head. ‘Before you can fire this pistol you require percussion caps over the chambers, dear wife,' he said with a cold fury. ‘For a moment I could not believe that you would even dare pull the trigger. You were truly going to kill me.'

Fiona could taste blood in her mouth and the red stars were fading. She realised that in his cold fury her husband was now capable of killing her. Her hand rested on something hard – a short spear with ornate barbs intended to rip its prey and lodge inside. It was now or never. If she did not kill him he would certainly kill her. With all the strength she could muster she gripped the spear and thrust it upwards at her husband. Startled, Granville yelped and leapt aside to avoid the point from taking him under the chin, the gun in his hand now as useless to him as it had been to Fiona.

Fiona was on her feet but still too groggy to continue a determined assault. However, she did have the consolation of seeing the fear return to her husband's eyes as he backed towards the door. ‘You will never see my daughters again,' she spat between tears of frustration as she advanced on him with the spear. ‘I may not be able to kill you now but so long as I am alive I swear you will never go near Dorothy and Helen again. I am taking them with me to Germany to live near Penelope and Manfred while you will continue to provide us with the means to live in the style befitting the daughter and grand-daughters of Sir Donald Macintosh.'

As he continued to back to the doorway, Granville nodded his agreement to her terms. He had once been told that some Aboriginal spears were tipped in a deadly poison that could bring a slow and agonising death. Even a nick from one of the barbs could be fatal and he was taking no chances of a mistake occurring. His wife had the upper hand – at least until he could find a way to disarm her.

The click of the front door drew them both to their senses. The housemaid had returned with a parcel of groceries. ‘Are you there Missus White?' she cheerfully called from the foyer. Granville pocketed the pistol and Fiona lowered the spear. ‘I am here,' Fiona answered in a tired voice. The confrontation had emotionally drained her. How close she had come to murdering her husband. He scowled as he turned to walk away and she could hear his angry voice from the foyer, telling the maid that he would be moving into his club. Confused, the maid glanced up to see her mistress standing at the head of the stairs. With a shock she could see that there was a large swelling around her mistress's left eye and blood smeared across her face. But more of a shock was seeing the Aboriginal spear still gripped in her hands. It did not take a policeman to figure out what had happened, the maid thought. Mister White had savagely attacked her mistress. She clucked her sympathy and dropping the groceries, rushed to Fiona's side.

M
ichael placed the remaining rounds for the Snider within easy reach and scanned the bush around him carefully for any signs of movement. He was rewarded for his alertness. The grass was moving in an odd way on the forward slope of the saddle. He pushed his rifle forward. One hundred yards he calculated, and set the rear sight for the range.

Someone was crawling towards a low jumble of rocks on the slope, he guessed grimly. With fire support from the saddle he would be in a position to catch him in a cross-fire. Michael squeezed off a shot and the rifle butt bit reassuringly into his shoulder. Although the bullet missed, it did pass close enough to the crawling man to cause him to leap to his feet and dash for the rocks.

Michael expertly flipped the breech and reloaded. His sights were set and he had the range. He aimed at a point slightly in front of the running man and fired. The terrified Chinese had almost reached the safety of the rocks when his ribs were smashed by the lead bullet. His forward momentum propelled him into the rocks where he crumpled like a rag doll. With the expertise of an experienced soldier, Michael had reloaded, even before the man had crashed into the rocks.

Michael hugged the earth and the expected return fire from the saddle above splattered around him. The concave shape of the slope provided extra protection against direct fire, and the Irish mercenary knew that he was safe in his position, so long as he kept them at bay. He also knew that he could meet any rash assault with the Colt that lay reassuringly beside his hand. Mort might have him pinned down, but they were again at a stalemate. For the next four hours neither side made a move.

Mort had watched the drama with professional interest. O’Flynn was deadly with the Snider, he admitted. He had to admire his adversary’s skill. The former police officer reassessed the situation. Maybe the night would provide him with the chance to turn the tables on O’Flynn. It would also provide an opportunity to use stealth in an attack under the cover of darkness when Woo returned with the Cochinese girl and his extra men.

It was just before sunset when one of the Chinese sentries found the pirate captain crawling towards him. Half his face had been sliced away by some kind of axe and he was losing a lot of blood. Although his injury was horrific, Mort figured that the man would probably live, albeit remaining horribly disfigured for the rest of his life. ‘You say the girl got away! You incompetent bastard,’ Mort spat savagely, and the pirate glared at him with hate-filled eyes.

‘Black man, many black man attack,’ the pirate captain babbled through waves of pain from his terrible wound. ‘White man with them, boss man to black man. Kill all Chinee man . . . kill me.’

Mort shook his head and sighed bitterly. It was all over! He knew the survivors of O’Flynn’s party would be just about at Cooktown by the time they went after them. And besides, with O’Flynn still alive and on the slope with his deadly Snider, he still posed a threat to them. He was certain that O’Flynn had already resigned himself to die – and seemed determined to take as many of them as possible to hell with him.

Well, if that is what you want, Mister O’Flynn, Mort brooded as he watched the pirate captain bind his wound with his jacket, that’s what you will get. Woo was tough and Mort was glad that the pirate captain had lived through the Aboriginal attack. He needed every man who could fire a rifle to grant O’Flynn’s death wish.

Mort slid the infantry sword from its scabbard and placed it by his side. He gazed westward at the slowly sinking orange ball of light. The approaching night came as a gentle pink glow in the west as the long shadows crept across the grassy slope. Then the gentle breeze dropped and the glow was gone, replaced by deeper and softer shadows. And finally the shadows were gone, absorbed by the darkness that came with stars filling the sky with sparkling crystalline light and shining down on the lone sniper lying out on the slope.

Michael’s shoulder throbbed from the wound. When he tried to crawl to another position he felt his shirt sticking to his back where the blood had congealed from his wound. He felt a strange and beautiful peace descend on him. So, he was slowly bleeding to death, he thought idly, and made a feeble attempt to reach for his water canteen to quench his raging thirst. Dying was not as bad as he thought it would be, and with all the strength he could muster, he brought the canteen to his lips.

‘O’Flynn!’ Mort’s voice cut across the calm of the tropical night. ‘If you can hear me I would like you to know that I will kill you myself. O’Flynn . . . ?’

So the murdering bastard wants to know if I’m still out here, Michael thought dreamily as the waves of euphoria washed over him.

‘O’Flynn?’ Mort called again. Had the Irishman slipped away in the dark? He raised his head cautiously to peer over the edge of the saddle. There was nothing out there except the foreboding silence and the sinister night. ‘Woo,’ Mort whispered softly to the pirate captain who sat holding a shirt to the side of his badly injured face. ‘Get a couple of your men to go down and see if our friend is still there.’

Woo hesitated, but was acutely aware that the devil had his rifle pointed at him. Now that the girl was well out of their grasp, he had no reason to follow the orders of the barbarian demon, except that he had an evil aura that made even the tough Chinese pirate think twice about killing him. Maybe later, he mused, and hissed orders to two of his men. They slithered over the rim of the rise, crawling cautiously towards where they suspected the leader of the men who had caused them so much trouble to be. These men had crept upon the fishing villages of their helpless victims in the dark, and night fighting was a form of warfare that suited their tastes.

A rustling in the grass . . . a snake . . . or a small marsupial hunter in search of prey? Lying on his back, Michael fought the urge to keep his eyes closed. He knew he must be ready, no matter how seductive the world beyond the darkness that beckoned to him with promises of eternal sleep. The chirping of the crickets had ceased. With the Colt in one hand, and the rifle in the other, Michael rolled very slowly onto his stomach, the painful effort causing his vision to twirl and blur.

They loomed simultaneously as silhouettes against the night sky. The two men were so close that Michael thrust the barrel of his rifle into one of the men’s chest when he pulled the trigger. Both Chinese had moved too soon and their fatal miscalculation cost them their lives. Michael emptied his Colt into the second man who had fired wildly in the dark.

Mort heard the shots and the unnerving, strangled death screams. At least he was certain that the Irishman was still out there. But why had he not used the night to escape? Because he could not! The Irishman must be badly wounded. Even so, he had to presume that the two men sent out to stalk O’Flynn had joined their ancestors in the next world. All he could do now was wait for the first light of morning. O’Flynn would be dead – or at least in no shape to resist a final assault on his position.

Mort rolled on his back. A few hours sleep was important if he was to have the vital edge for the final confrontation in the morning. And before he drifted into sleep, he had the satisfaction of knowing that the Irishman could not afford to close his eyes if he were to stay alive to see another dawn.

Michael closed his eyes. On a grassy slope of an unnamed hill, he entered a twilight world where he hovered between life and death. The dreams that came to his fevered mind were as real to him as the two dead Chinese only a few feet away staring with sightless eyes up at the Southern Cross. His night was filled with the ghostly faces of comrades long dead. He spoke to them, his fevered words drifting across the dark void.

The pistol slipped from his fingers.

Mort woke and shuddered with superstitious fear as he listened to the litany for the dead. It was as if his adversary was calling on a phantom army. ‘Shut up you Irish bastard!’ he screamed down the slope. For a fleeting moment he entertained the idea that he could go down the slope and finish O’Flynn off with a thrust from his sword. But he cautioned himself that O’Flynn might be playing an elaborate ruse to lure him. No, he would wait until the morning; he would not allow the ranting of the man to keep him awake!

In his world of ghosts Michael walked the corridors of his life. Or was it that his life was a parade that passed before him? Sometimes he would choose to linger: to stop and watch Aunt Bridget stoking the kitchen fire at the Erin Hotel, or climb a tree in Fraser’s paddock with Daniel, when they were boys. Now he was teasing Katie, who scowled at him for his mischief; and now he was on a beach where seagulls cried with human voices. Fiona was holding his hand, and he held the hand of a little boy with green eyes.

‘Patrick!’

The name screamed in the night snapped Mort from his fitful sleep. He sat bolt upright staring with mad eyes into the dark. But there was nothing out there, except the ramblings of the Irishman, and the great canopy of stars shimmering overhead. The Irishman had screamed the name of the teamster he had slain so long ago.

Asleep in her bed in Cooktown, Kate was catapulted into consciousness by a scream. She sat up and could hear her own laboured breathing and the thump of her heart. But she sensed that she was not being threatened, and that the scream had no physical substance. A nightmare, she decided, as she pulled a shawl around her shoulders, and slipped from the bed to check on the sleeping children.

Reassured that they were safe in their beds, Kate returned to her bedroom where she sat in a chair with the lantern on a sideboard, lighting the tiny space that she shared with no man.

The silent scream still haunted her as the room seemed to resound with its echo. It had been so real. As real as had the experience eleven years earlier, when the old Aboriginal had come to her on the brigalow plains of central Queensland. He had been daubed in ochre and covered with colourful feathers. Kate still had vivid memories of his surreal visit in the night. He had come to her on the wings of an eagle and revealed in her dreams the destruction of his people. He had spoken to her of a spirit person – a white warrior – whose destiny was bound in blood and revenge. The images had been vague, however, and the time of destiny too far in the future for the seventeen-year-old girl to comprehend.

As she sat staring, her present dreams returned as frightening whispers; a vision of a muddy pool of water and an evil-eyed crow. The shadow of death stalked a member of her family. In despair Kate realised that there was nothing she could do to prevent the imminent tragedy.

But whose death – or dying – had reached out to her?

Tears welled in her eyes and she reached for a pen and paper. It was time to write to her family in faraway Sydney. She suspected that, in due course, she would receive a letter informing her of a death in the family.

As Kate poised with the pen over the blank page she had the oddest of thoughts. For a moment an image of her long-dead brother Michael came to her. She shook her head, dismissing the strange recollection of him. But the thoughts of her brother persisted.

She placed the pen in the inkwell and attempted to rationalise her thoughts. Was it because she had been so close to Michael in life that his spirit should naturally come to her thoughts when she had a premonition of a death in the family? That her ancient Celtic blood turned her brother into a bearer of tragic news in her life? Whatever the answer was, she knew that soon she would learn of a death in the family, and it would not surprise her.

She lifted the pen from the inkwell once more. She could hear the calls of the distant curlews in the night, a high keening moan which caused her to shudder.