To Ride the Wind (15 page)

‘You know his name?’ Matthew asked incredulously. ‘And what do you mean, track you?’

Joanne rose to her feet, scanning the low ridges around them for signs of further Turkish troops. ‘It is a long story, but since I arrived in Constantinople the Ottomans have suspected me of spying. It is not true,’ she sniffed, bringing her emotions under control. ‘I am nothing more than an archaeologist, as you know.’

Matthew watched her walk unsteadily towards the Packard. He shook his head as he followed her. He knew so little about this extraordinary woman who could kill so easily one minute and then break down with remorse the next.

Fenella stepped from her limousine and bid her chauffeur a good night. It had been a long day attending a luncheon organised to raise funds for the Red Cross but she felt the effort worth it given her beloved father was fighting on the Western Front. Sunday evenings had become a tradition for some time alone, away from the constant swirl of people around her during the working week and her frenetic social life of night clubs, parties and dinners. She opened the door and stepped inside her luxurious house with the idea of a long soak in the tub, flute of champagne in hand and a good dose of bath salts to soothe her weary body.

The cook had left a selection of cold meats and salad vegetables in the refrigerator and Fenella opened it to retrieve the chilled bottle and nibble on a slice of cold beef. Closing the door, she walked towards her bedroom to disrobe, magnum and glass in hand. She paused in the doorway of her bedroom. One of the windows was wide open. The silly housemaid must have overlooked it before she left, Fenella thought, annoyed at the oversight. But then a chilling thought crept into her mind. She stared at the open window. There were distinctive smudges of garden dirt on the sill. Immediately, Fenella stepped back into the hallway. But she was too late. An arm wrapped around her throat, a razor blade against her chin.

‘Don’t struggle or I’ll cut ya,’ a voice hissed in her ear.

Fenella instinctively swung her arm up, bringing the large bottle of champagne over her head and slamming it on her assailant’s skull. The thick glass did not break but the man let go with a noisy grunt.

Fenella twisted around to face her attacker, a thin man, bleeding profusely, blood running down his face. She hefted the magnum to swing again at him but despite his initial shock, he reacted quickly, slashing at Fenella’s raised arm. Fenella felt a searing heat burn her wrist and reeled back, dropping the bottle. Blood spurted from the severed artery, spraying the walls and her attacker, who was cursing her as he advanced with the cutthroat razor.

‘You bitch,’ he screamed at her. ‘Why’d ya do that?’

Fenella backed into the bedroom, attempting to stem the blood pumping from her almost severed wrist. But her fear was not helping slow her heart and the blood continued to pour stickily between her fingers. She hardly recognised her own voice as she screamed at the top of her lungs for help.

Her assailant was shaking his head, dabbing at the laceration to his skull. ‘I’m gonna cut you from limb to limb, you bitch, for what you done to me,’ he muttered as he advanced on Fenella.

Fenella suddenly felt tired. She wanted to just lay down and go to sleep. The blood was pumping furiously from her wrist as she slumped down on the edge of her bed. The advancing man was becoming a blur to her. The last word Mick O’Rourke heard from his victim was a man’s name. ‘Help me, Randolph.’

O’Rourke dropped his blade on the bed beside Fenella and went to find a towel to swab his head. The bleeding was severe and he knew that he must seek medical attention. His intention to rape her first had been thwarted by her resistance, and he was angry. His consolation was that he could now return home and collect the balance owed to him. All he had to do was get out of the house, find a hospital where he could have his head wound stitched, and be at the docks before midday on the morrow to embark for Sydney. Considering everything, Mick O’Rourke was satisfied that he had done his homework well and there were no witnesses.

His head throbbing, the killer made only two mistakes. Instead of leaving the house the way he came in where the shrubs concealed him, he took the quickest route and went out the front door. He also left his razor on the bed beside his victim. He would be well away from the scene of the crime before he remembered it and by then it was too late to retrieve it.

An elderly lady who lived across the street had thought she heard a woman scream. When she went to her front window she saw nothing unusual but remained by the window watching the street. She was rewarded by seeing a man leave the house, holding a bloody towel to his head which he tossed into the garden by the front path. The witness had a good view of the man as he stood for a moment under a street light looking up and down the roadway. She could even see the scar on his face and from the blood on his clothing she knew all was not right. As the man strolled away, disappearing into the darkness at the end of the street, the elderly lady telephoned the local police sergeant who responded quickly. When he and one of his uniformed men found Fenella’s body slumped over her bed shortly afterwards, the sergeant immediately called a number which he knew would get him through to a studio head. This was Hollywood where the power of the men who ran the main industry was able to reach into the portals of the justice system. He would give them a half hour to discuss their strategy before calling his own detectives to investigate.

It did not take long for the news concerning the death of the famous actress in her mansion to reach the media. Before dawn the house was surrounded by a bustling crowd of reporters trampling Fenella’s once immaculate lawns and gardens. Within days, the news would spread around the world and be reported in Australian newspapers. The media would reveal that it was rumoured that the actress Fiona Owens was, in fact, Fenella Macintosh, a person of interest in the death two years earlier of the Australian actor Guy Wilkes.

When George Macintosh read the headlines days later at breakfast he felt no grief for his murdered sister. Her death had been an economic necessity, as far as he was concerned, if the family business was to flourish under his sole management. Now only his younger brother remained and George cursed the army for not releasing him for active service. He reached for his cup of tea and continued to read the scandal that was unravelling about the beautiful young actress’s sordid life before her tragic death.

‘Typical,’ George muttered, placing his cup on its saucer. She even brought shame to the family name in death, he mused. With a sigh, George rose from the table and folded the paper. He must relay the news of Fenella’s death to his father overseas, he thought, smiling, as his driver pulled into the driveway.

8

W
inter was coming to the Northern Hemisphere and Captain Sean Duffy knew that the men on the Western Front would feel its impact in the trenches. As he sat behind his desk in a tiny room warmed by a coal burner he cursed the army and all its bureaucrats. At the end of his staff college course for company commanders, he had expected to be posted back to his old battalion, if not as a company commander at the least company second-in-command. But this had not happened and for the last two months he had found himself posted to London to the War Office in a role that any clerk could fill.

Sean suspected that the matter of the incorrect report nominating him for a gallantry award had somehow brought about what he saw as a punishment posting. It had not been his report that had brought him to this office safe from the bullets and bombs his comrades suffered every day. He felt like a coward. Even the fact that he had been able to occupy Colonel Patrick Duffy’s comfortable flat a short walk from his office had not negated his feelings of shame and hopelessness. He should be back on the front with his men, not skulking in an office job.

The clerical corporal knocked on Sean’s door and entered to drop a pile of papers on his desk. ‘Never seems to end, sir,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Oh, there is a message that a Colonel Duffy will be returning tonight from France and requests your company at his club this evening at 6pm.’

‘Thank you, Corp,’ Sean answered as the English NCO departed the room.

It had been months since he had seen his distant cousin and Sean was pleased to hear that he had returned safe and well from his posting with divisional headquarters. If anyone could get to the bottom of why he had been posted to the War Office for liaison duties it would be Patrick.

When his working day had ended, Sean took his greatcoat from the stand, slipped on a pair of leather gloves and made his way along the London street to Patrick’s club. He passed civilians and soldiers alike. The civilians hardly gave him a glance but British soldiers were wary enough to salute the officer. Sean wondered at the seeming complacency of the city’s residents towards the war, although Patrick’s upper-class civilian friends constantly complained how it was interrupting their social lives and causing shortages in goods. Not that they went short on anything, he’d noticed when he was an occasional guest at their country houses, usually to make up numbers for the many single women and even unescorted married women who attended.

Sean had found himself in one or two young women’s beds after such parties but felt nothing for his sexual partners. It was as if something had died in him and although the young ladies found him dashing and glamorous with his award of the Military Cross for action at Gallipoli, sex was not the answer. Sean would gaze down at each partner knowing that he could not say the words they wanted to hear. Self-loathing for being safe or simply that none of the women attracted him for more than the relief of the moment, he wondered. More often than not he did not even know when he left in the mornings.

Except for the rare zeppelin raid over England the war was contained to the Continent, and only the streams of badly mangled bodies being off-loaded at railway stations and the men with trembling hands and nightmares returning on leave reminded civilian observers of the horrors experienced in the trenches.

When Sean reached the club he was shown in by an elderly former soldier who relieved him of his bulky greatcoat. He found Patrick lounging in a large leather chair that no doubt had also warmed the backsides of generals who had served anywhere from Tibet, India and Africa to China and even the Australian colonies many years earlier. Patrick rose as Sean crossed the floor of the elegant room filled with pipe and cigar smoke. Only the clink of ice in the tumblers of gin and whisky seemed to disturb the quiet ambience.

‘Sean, it is good to see you well and hale,’ Patrick said with a warm smile, stretching out his hand. ‘What can I order for you . . . a gin, whisky?’

‘Whisky would be fine, thank you, sir,’ Sean answered, glancing around at a few frowning faces who obviously disapproved of a young colonial officer in their midst. At least the colourful purple and white riband on his jacket deflected some of the looks of disapproval.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Patrick said, gesturing to a chair similar to his own and at the same time signalling to a white-jacketed waiter hovering nearby. ‘A whisky, neat,’ he said to the waiter. ‘On my chit, James.’

The waiter nodded and moved away to fill the order.

‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ Sean said, taking his seat. ‘The news of Nellie’s death reached me in the papers over here.’

‘It was not just a death – but murder,’ Patrick replied, taking his seat.

For a brief moment Sean thought the tough, professional soldier might burst into tears. ‘The American press seemed to have exposed Nellie’s true identity,’ Sean said, hoping to steer the colonel away from his grief. ‘They should be damned to hell for the lies they have printed in the press over there about Nellie’s private life.’

‘I know that you were very fond of my daughter,’ Patrick said. ‘I expect that you are missing her too.’

‘I never really had the honour of pursuing my feelings for Nellie,’ Sean answered, lowering his voice as the waiter returned.

Patrick signed the paper handed to him. ‘I cannot dwell on Nellie’s death at the moment. So many are dying over in France, as a result of outdated tactics that should have been left on the veldt of Africa.’

Sean could see that Patrick was forcing himself not to dwell on the reports of his daughter’s murder, and admired him for his strength to focus on what he could change.

‘It’s not going well, is it, sir?’ Sean said, swishing his whisky around the ice cubes before taking a sip.

Patrick sighed. ‘We need to review our tactics,’ he said. ‘Just hopping the bags and attempting frontal attacks does not work. The Huns are too well entrenched, better than we are, and the little ground we win is lost in counterattacks. We need to look at using small groups of men, well armed, attacking weak points in the lines to push through to strike at the Hun rear echelon while we push forward our arms to finish off any pockets of resistance left behind.’

Sean listened dutifully as the divisional officer outlined his idea of forming units of a new kind of soldier trained to carry out shock attacks on the enemy.

‘But the bloody politics I come across at divvie level does not have the brains or imagination to see my ideas.’

‘Maybe the Hun will one day beat us to the punch and form units of what you call shock troops,’ Sean suggested by way of acknowledging that he had been listening to Patrick’s tirade against the military establishment. ‘At least we do attempt to learn from the enemy.’

‘Probably,’ Patrick replied gloomily. He took a long swig from his drink, before turning to gesture to the waiter to refill it. ‘But the troubles of a staff officer are not those of a captain about to be posted back to the battalion in France.’ Sean almost dropped his tumbler at Patrick’s unexpected announcement. ‘You will receive your movement orders tomorrow,’ he continued casually. ‘I hope that you will be ready to move within twenty-four hours.

‘Sir, you have obviously pulled some strings,’ Sean said, leaning forward and almost hugging his cousin. ‘I am still damning to hell that bloody Irish major who had me transferred to the War Office.’