To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (35 page)

. . . It is a shame that you have missed the celebrations to mark our colonies coming under one flag as a new nation in the Empire. I am pleased to see those idiotic trade tariffs dropped between the colonies. They were an obstruction to our trade for the Macintosh companies as you well know, but it is a strange feeling to think that we are all now one nation, although we all accept that England will always be our Mother.

The Federation of Australia had also affected Patrick’s career in the army. He was no longer a member of a colonial unit but part of the Australian army, though he doubted the colonial soldiers from Queensland and New South Wales he had served with would be quick to identify with the new army model. They had gone to war with regiments that had fought hard to earn battle honours and the idea of these honours being absorbed by one nation was not easy to accept.

Patrick continued to read the long letter. It contained snippets about life back in Sydney as well as mention of mutual friends. The letter had been written at the height of the Southern Hemisphere summer and now Australia was moving into winter. In England, the cold sleet and wet winds would soon be replaced with a massive revival of life in the fields and hedgerows with the coming of spring.

. . . Your adoring grandmother, Lady Enid.

With a sigh Patrick placed the carefully folded letter back in its envelope and gazed into the gentle flicker of the flames.

‘You have a visitor, Major Duffy,’ a voice said behind him.

‘Who is it, Davies?’ Patrick asked the manservant.

‘A Captain Thorncroft from Australia, sir,’ Davies replied with just a hint of distaste in his voice, no doubt due to this reminder of the new nation of former convicts.

‘Arthur!’ Patrick exclaimed softly. ‘Send him in, man,’ he commanded.

‘Very well, sir,’ Davies replied. He reappeared a short time later with Arthur in tow.

Patrick rose from the great leather chair to greet his old friend with a warm handshake.

‘You are looking very well, Patrick,’ Arthur said as he stood back to appraise him. ‘The suit is just a little loose but I suppose you have lost some weight since the surgeons extracted all that German iron from you.’

‘It is good to see a familiar face,’ Patrick smiled. ‘I did not expect to see you until I returned to Sydney.’

‘Have you forgotten,’ Arthur laughed, ‘that the Macintosh empire is paying to send me on a fact finding mission around the world?’

‘Ah, yes, to find out more about moving pictures. How is your enterprise going?’

‘I could lie and say that I have been busy exploring the technical world of moving pictures,’ Arthur replied with a grin. ‘Or I could also tell you that I have been having a very good time doing so.’

‘Rather the truth, old boy,’ Patrick said, realising as he spoke that his convalescence in the Macintosh country house in England had transferred some English ways onto him, even down to his manner of speech.

‘Well, I heard that you were back from South Africa, albeit under rather brutal circumstances, and I decided that part of your recovery would depend on my contacts,’ Arthur said. ‘So as part of my commission I have come to fetch you back to London for some entertainment befitting a warrior of the Queen.’

‘I think I am up to that now,’ Patrick replied. ‘It has been a long time since I sought the company of others. Since I came here all I have really done is sit by this fire and brood about the future.’

‘And what are your plans?’ Arthur asked.

‘I don’t really know,’ Patrick replied, glancing back at the flames in the hearth. ‘The medical board has passed me as fit to remain with the army but what I hear coming out of South Africa disturbs me. I think I might be at odds with Kitchener in the way he is pursuing the war.’

‘Met Kitchener once,’ Arthur reflected. ‘It was back in the Sudan and I didn’t like the man. A cold fish, who I sensed had aspirations beyond his breeding.’

‘You have to give him credit for how he handled that campaign,’ Patrick defended. ‘But I don’t think he has the ability to handle this one. We are fighting a new kind of war, in a new century.’

Arthur broke into a broad smile to distract his
friend from gloomy recollections. ‘Well, what about the trip down to London? I have a rather pleasant surprise waiting for you if you get yourself ready. You could say that the money your companies pay me to conduct research brings some rewards in the world of opera. Ah, but don’t expect me to tell you more, Major Duffy,’ Arthur continued when he noticed the quizzical expression on Patrick’s face. ‘You will have to meet her yourself.’

‘Catherine?’ Patrick asked hopefully, although he knew his wife had nothing to do with opera apart from occasionally attending a performance.

A dark expression clouded Arthur’s face and Patrick knew he was wrong. ‘I am afraid not,’ Arthur replied. ‘But someone who has shown a great interest in meeting you. It seems that she has rather a lot in common with your family.’

Patrick sighed at his friend’s love of intrigue. But he would go to London in company with Arthur. It would be a break from the confines of the Macintosh residence in a country throwing off the last cold blankets of winter.

Father Eamon O’Brien met his visitor with some reservation. Despite the fact that he was a fellow priest, although not wearing the cassock, Eamon still knew who he was. Father Martin Duffy already had a dark reputation in the village for political intrigue rather than a devotion to his religion. But that was the way with the Jesuits, Eamon thought, as he ushered the Australian priest into the presbytery.

‘God bless you, Father O’Brien,’ Martin said as he shook off the bitter cold of the grey day. ‘It is good to finally make your acquaintance.’

Eamon hoped that the edge of annoyance he felt did not show. The Jesuit had been in the village on other occasions without the courtesy of stopping by the church to introduce himself. He noticed that his visitor was similar in many ways to Patrick Duffy except that he was not as solidly built, his leanness giving him the illusion of height.

‘I believe you are Patrick Duffy’s cousin,’ Eamon said.

‘I am,’ Martin replied as he rubbed his hands in front of the iron stove. ‘We grew up together in Sydney many years ago. For the first part of my life I thought Patrick was my brother.’

‘We are all brothers,’ Eamon replied.

His sarcasm was not missed by Martin. ‘I gather that you do not approve of me,’ Martin said turning his back to Eamon. ‘But you were educated by the English, I believe, and that may explain your antagonism towards the cause I fight for.’

‘I was born in England,’ Eamon bridled, ‘but I was ordained in Rome and my loyalties are to the Church, not politics.’

‘Justice for the oppressed is God’s work,’ Martin said, turning to face Eamon. ‘But I do not expect a parish priest to understand that.’

For a second Eamon felt the sting of his patronising comment. ‘Pride is a sin,’ he replied. ‘It is something that I try to avoid. But putting our differences aside, Father Duffy, I am curious as to why you
should finally make your presence in the village known to me.’

‘I have not declared my presence in the past so as to avoid involving your name in the cause to free Ireland from the English,’ Martin replied. ‘I can assure you, it was not prompted by any intended discourtesy.’

Eamon was taken slightly aback by the explanation and softened his demeanour towards the Australian priest. He had made a point of not getting involved in the ever-present issue of the English occupation of Ireland and was never truly sure whether it was because he had been born in England, or because he felt his mission tended towards the religious rather than secular matters of the parish.

‘I accept your explanation,’ Eamon replied in a conciliatory tone, ‘and can offer you a fine drop of Irish whisky to help warm the soul.’

Martin smiled for the first time and Eamon was reminded again of Patrick Duffy. He fetched the bottle and both men sat at the battered wooden table in the warmth of the presbytery kitchen.

When the tumblers were filled Martin raised his glass. ‘To a free Ireland,’ he toasted.

Eamon raised his glass. ‘God bless her.’

‘I have come to see you,’ Martin said after a generous sip, ‘because I know that you are well acquainted with my cousin’s wife, Catherine Duffy.’

‘Catherine and I had a mutual interest in archaeology,’ Eamon replied guardedly. ‘But sadly, we have had little contact since her . . . condition. She has
isolated herself at the Fitzgerald manor and sees no-one. But what is your interest in Patrick’s wife?’

Martin did not answer immediately but stared at the table for a short time, gathering his carefully chosen words. ‘Despite Patrick’s and my estrangement over the years, he will always be like the brother I first thought I had. I learned of Catherine’s pregnancy some time ago and feel that I owe it to Patrick to try to help.’

Eamon stared into Martin’s eyes but could not see any guile in his explanation. ‘You have some knowledge of her dilemma?’ he asked.

‘I know that the baby cannot be Patrick’s,’ Martin replied. ‘I also know that my cousin was badly wounded in the fighting in South Africa last year.’

‘If I must say so,’ Eamon said quietly, ‘I find it strange that you should show your concern considering that I know of your activities to recruit the village men to go to South Africa and fight the English.’

‘That is not personal,’ Martin replied, taking a long swallow of the whisky. ‘Patrick is still my flesh and blood – and that is personal.’

‘So what do you propose?’

‘I thought that I might pay Catherine a visit,’ Martin said. ‘If nothing else, offer her my counsel in her difficult time.’

Eamon pondered the proposal. He had attempted to make contact with Catherine but she had turned him away each time. The dig had been abandoned and the stone altar reburied. He had warned Catherine that only evil could come of it, his religious beliefs overriding his logical scientific approach
to the dig once they had uncovered the mysterious stone.

‘If you can help Catherine in any way,’ Eamon finally said, ‘then I would be grateful. She is a lost soul and I fear her baby’s soul will be also lost if she does not get help.’

‘Who is the father?’ Martin asked.

‘Catherine is under the delusion that Satan is the father but I strongly suspect that it is a Mr Brett Norris who now owns the Fitzgerald manor. He does not live there anymore, but I have heard he will soon return to visit Catherine.’

At the mention of Brett Norris’s name, Martin frowned. He knew of the man whose enterprises were substantial suppliers of arms and munitions to the British army.

‘How advanced is she in her pregnancy?’ he asked.

‘I suspect a good nine months already,’ Martin replied. ‘You will need to see her as soon as possible if you are going to do any good.’

Father Martin Duffy rose from the table. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father O’Brien,’ he said.

‘If you wish lodgings for the night you are welcome to stay here,’ Eamon offered.

‘I have lodgings,’ Martin smiled. ‘But your offer is appreciated. I think it would be wise for me to leave. My visit to you may have been noted by any English informants in the village, although I doubt even they would be out on a night like this.’

As Eamon accompanied Martin to the door, he noted with a frown that the Jesuit priest was joined
by a shadowy figure as he stepped into the night. For a man of God, it was strange that the Australian priest put his faith in the powers of a bodyguard, Eamon thought as the sleet and dark took the two men from his sight.

THIRTY-SIX

N
ext to Sydney, London was Patrick’s most loved metropolis. And now it offered so much in the way of distraction from his insular brooding on the war wounds he had received. The army surgeons had removed all the shrapnel, leaving his chest, legs and arms forever marked. But the thin scar from a small shard of shrapnel that had sheared along his jaw was the only outward indication that he had been wounded.

Arthur had rented a small but comfortable set of rooms not far from London’s strip of vaudeville houses. He had already made his contacts amongst the entrepreneurs who were exploiting the moving picture technology to make money from London’s masses.

Inside his lodgings Arthur showed Patrick to his tiny room, apologising for the cramped
accommodation. Patrick only smiled and reminded his friend it was far more comfortable than the conditions they lived under back in ’85 in the Sudan campaign.

That night they dressed for the opera. The renowned antipodean diva Miss Deborah Cohen was performing arias from Bizet. Arthur had obtained the tickets through his contacts in the world of theatre and he grinned at Patrick’s surprise at his enterprise, ‘I believe Miss Cohen is your Aunt Kate’s goddaughter,’ Arthur said. ‘I thought that you might like to meet her.’

‘You can do that?’ Patrick asked with just a touch of awe.

‘Certainly, old chap,’ Arthur said, puffing out his chest in mock importance. ‘A fringe benefit of moving in the circles of the rich and famous.’

That evening as they sat in a box overlooking the stage, Miss Deborah Cohen’s voice proved as entrancing as her reputation suggested. With the discipline of a regimental sergeant major, she controlled the notes to extract the clearest and most beautiful effect from them. Although Patrick was not a great lover of opera he found Deborah’s performance exceptional. Or did his attraction to her promise a small link to a sun-drenched country far away where his family resided?

When the performance was over and the well-dressed patrons filtered out to attend parties in the city, Arthur took Patrick’s elbow and guided him to a hansom cab. ‘We have an invitation to drinks with Miss Cohen,’ Arthur said. ‘Just another service
provided by the Macintosh money wisely used to employ my exceptional services.’

‘Miss Cohen,’ Arthur said formally, ‘may I introduce you to Major Patrick Duffy, from Sydney.’

Patrick stood a little self-consciously amongst the well-dressed crowd in the swank hotel foyer.