To Ride the Wind (37 page)

Major Alex Macintosh hardly remembered being stretchered out of the lines. He was not alone, as the Germans had delivered a barrage of artillery shells on the Australian troops, killing and wounding many. He wavered between life and death as he lay in a row of stretchers outside a former farm house, now being used as a medical clearing station. A doctor had bent over him in the rainy night and under the pale light of a hurricane lantern examined him briefly. Alex’s face was swathed in bandages and he heard the medical officer grunt that he was to be left with the last of the wounded for treatment. In his pain now slowly dulled by the morphine, Alex knew that he had probably been exiled to those that had been deemed in triage as hopelessly wounded and likely to die. He could taste blood in his mouth and found it hard to breathe. Beside him a dying soldier whimpered for his mother. Alex wanted to comfort him but could not see the soldier in the wet, dark night. Alex found his own comfort as his thoughts drifted to Giselle and his young son. His last thoughts were about his family before the blood filled his lungs and drowned him, shrapnel having also ripped through his chest.

When the sun rose in a sky swept with low, scudding clouds delivering drizzle, the medics came to sort the still living from the dead. One bent over to prise a blood-spattered photograph from the dead Australian major’s fingers and glanced at it. It showed a very pretty young woman holding a smiling baby. He rifled through the dead officer’s clothing for any personal effects to be sent home to his next of kin, and removed one of his identity disks, leaving the other on the body for future identification.

Then the medical assistant moved onto the dead body beside the Australian major. He was a young German soldier, whose bleary eyes stared up at the sky. The medic knew that he must work quickly, because the stretchers would be desperately needed for the coming battle for Passchendaele.

Giselle received her telegram before the public release of Alex’s name in the newspapers. Her grief was so great that she fainted. She was revived by Angus MacDonald, who called Louise to the room to assist him. Louise picked up the crumpled telegram from the floor of the foyer and read it quickly. She only needed to see Alex’s name and the three dreaded words, killed in action, to know why Giselle was in such a state. Now more than ever Louise would have to call on all her own strength to nurse her best friend through her dreadful grief.

As she helped carry Giselle to a couch, an awful thought crossed Louise’s mind. If Alex was dead then George would take possession of the house, leaving Giselle and her son homeless. Louise despised her husband but now she felt raw hate for him. How could a man do such a thing to his brother’s family? If Alex’s father was ever needed to stop his eldest son from carrying out such a dastardly act it was now. The secret had been kept from Alex and no-one other than Giselle and George seemed to understand such an outrageous arrangement. Whatever the gamble had been, Giselle had lost her husband and her home.

They lay Giselle on the couch and she curled into a foetal position, whimpering like a child. Upstairs, her young son, David, began to cry and was soothed by the nanny. Louise looked across to the old sergeant major and realised that he also would be without a home when George took possession. Maybe all was not lost. Patrick would ensure that his daughter-in-law and grandson would not find themselves destitute on the streets. Ironically, by George seizing the house he was also taking his father’s home from him, as Patrick had signed over the title to Alex at the outbreak of war, much to George’s fury who thought that he was entitled to half the house. But Patrick had quietly explained that George already had the former residence of the White family given to him by the Macintosh companies as part of his package of benefits for managing the family enterprises. It had nothing to do with his feelings for his eldest son but was merely a matter of providing for them both in appropriate ways.

Louise knew that Sean was fighting to have the contract made null and void but was having little success in the courts. If anyone could help Giselle it had to be Sean.

Meanwhile, Sean’s decision to hire Harry Griffiths was already paying off. The former Sydney policeman had used his skills, influence and good rapport with the Sydney underworld to garner information. Harry had been known as tough but fair in his time on the beat. He would ensure that the families of the men he put behind bars were looked after by charitable services, and this brought respect. His nemesis, Jack Firth, also garnered respect, but that was through fear.

Harry, like Jack, was a man whose life shifted between the two worlds of the good and the bad. When he reported to Sean at his office his appearance did not cause any curiosity. The firm was used to seeing such characters pass through its doors in search of legal advice. Sean sat the big man down and offered him tea, which he politely declined.

‘Picked up some interesting things about our Jack from some of a dead crim’s mates,’ Harry said. He’d had conversations with both serving police who had been friends when he had served his community in the blue uniform as well as a few criminals he had known walking the beat. ‘A bloke known as Mick O’Rourke had a big mouth, and it appears Firth is definitely on the take big time. From what I learned he is also on the payroll of George Macintosh.’ Sean was not surprised to hear this bit of news. ‘There is also a rumour that Firth did a job for George Macintosh and paid Mick O’Rourke to travel to America to kill this Macintosh’s sister.’

Harry was confirming Sean’s suspicions, albeit ones that were based on simply hearsay. If anyone in New South Wales deserved to swing on the gallows it was George Macintosh, he thought bitterly. He was a man born without morals or scruples. ‘Harry, I want you to dig as deep as you can into the connections between George Macintosh and Jack Firth,’ Sean said, retrieving an envelope from his desk drawer. ‘See if you can find anything to do with a German woman, Mrs Karolina Schumann, and Firth.’ Sean was working on a hunch. The fact that Giselle’s mother had been mysteriously released from the internment camp and then returned just as mysteriously played on Sean’s mind. He felt there was some connection between Karolina’s fate and Giselle signing the contract without telling her husband.

‘I know a cobber who works in Firth’s office,’ Harry said, pocketing the envelope Sean had passed to him across the desk. ‘Jack is now working for the secret service – or something like that. My cobber can get to see his files but I will have to make it worth his while to put Jack in harm’s way.’

Sean opened his desk drawer again, located a five pound note and passed it to Harry.

‘I think that should do the job,’ Harry said, raising his eyebrows. ‘But don’t expect him to sign a receipt for the money,’ he added with a grin.

‘I trust you, Harry,’ Sean said, noticing the expression on Harry’s face. It was an open and honest look that Sean rarely saw in his business but understood when he saw it. ‘Believe me, if all goes well we will nail Detective Inspector Jack Firth.’

‘Other than getting my eye back, seeing Firth go down will be the next best thing happening in my life to date,’ Harry said, rising from his chair. ‘I will get back to you as soon as I have something.’

Sean watched the man leave his office. When the telephone rang, he lifted the handset. It was Louise.

‘Darling, have your heard?’ she asked.

The smile faded from Sean’s face at the tone in his lover’s voice. ‘Heard what?’ Sean replied.

‘Giselle has just received a telegram informing her that Alex has been killed in action.’

Sean felt his heart miss a beat. He did not know the man well but had sworn to Patrick Duffy to protect the interests of Alex and his family, and felt a twinge of guilt for not being able to be of much good to date in voiding the disastrous contract Giselle had signed. ‘Oh, God!’ he groaned, ‘How is Giselle taking the news?’

‘Very badly,’ Louise answered. ‘I am with her now and she has just been administered a stiff dose of laudanum. You know what George will do when he learns of Alex’s death?’

‘I know.’

‘Is there anything you can do legally to stop him?’

‘Not at this stage,’ Sean sighed.

‘Then possibly I might be able to do something,’ Louise said, alarming Sean.

‘I hope that you do not have plans to kill your husband,’ Sean countered, considering the worst. ‘Not that he does not deserve to be put down like some rabid dog.’

‘No. That would give Giselle a home but for the moment please don’t ask me what my idea is.’

There was pain in Louise’s voice but Sean respected her wishes. In good time she would reveal how she planned to ensure that her sister-in-law was not made homeless and destitute. It was all so bloody messy, Sean thought as he hung up and stared at the bookcases opposite his desk. He had survived one war but his involvement with Louise and the Macintosh family had dragged him into another, where his opponent was capable of cold-blooded murder. Sean could only rely on the former soldier Harry Griffith to get all the information he could to bring both Jack Firth and George Macintosh before the courts. But this would not be easy. Both men were held in high regard by the conservative higher classes in Sydney, and the corrupt policeman also wielded power on the streets of the city.

Brigadier Patrick Duffy was not the only senior officer to have a son killed in this bloody war. When he received the news at his HQ behind the Passchendaele lines, he put on the stoic demeanour of acceptance expected of a senior commander. After all, his own battle plans inevitably resulted in the deaths of soldiers who had fathers trusting in him to keep their sons alive. Patrick could not make an exception with his son but, when he was able to secure time alone in his quarters, he sat on his bed and wept with overwhelming grief at the loss of the son he loved most.

Outside the door to Patrick’s quarters, his batman heard his pain and quietly kept all away until the respected brigadier was ready to come out and resume his duties. The batman, an old soldier of many colonial campaigns, had seen this terrible situation before when soldier fathers lost soldier sons. It was not right that fathers outlive their children, he thought, as he waved off a young officer attempting to deliver a signal to Brigade HQ.

‘The boss will be out in a sec,’ the batman said to the young, fresh-faced second lieutenant. ‘He just needs a little time to himself.’

Despite the fact that the batman only wore the two chevrons of a corporal, the more senior commissioned officer knew well he spoke on behalf of the brigadier and quickly removed himself. Within fifteen minutes, Patrick emerged, dry eyed, and returned to his operations room in the former chateau. It was time to get back to this grinding, never-ending war that minced the bodies of young men into the mud, snow and dust of the battlefields without any glimmer of hope for an end. In a couple of weeks he was scheduled to return to England to attend high-level meetings with the British prime minister’s office. Normally, he would have welcomed a respite to Blighty but now, with the death of his son, Patrick preferred to remain in France either until he was killed or they won the war.

21

L
ouise sat behind Angus in the back seat of her sister-in-law’s car in a dark mood. She expected to find her husband home. He was usually a stickler for routine, and after six in the evening could be found in his library poring over documents and files pertaining to the management of the family enterprises.

Angus stopped at the front door of the Macintosh house, turned off the engine and got out to open Louise’s door. He remained standing beside the car, hoping his physical presence would be a warning to George Macintosh.

‘You are certain you do not wish me to accompany you inside?’ he asked as Louise stepped out.

‘No thank you, Angus,’ Louise replied with a weak smile. ‘I am sure my husband will prove to be a reasonable man.’

Angus was not so sure. He had watched George grow into the despicable person he had become and was well aware of his violent character.

Louise took a breath, walked to the front door and knocked. She was greeted by a young girl of around fifteen years of age whom she did not recognise. The girl looked Louise up and down suspiciously as she stood with the door ajar.

‘Is Mr Macintosh in?’ Louise asked, returning the young girl’s surly stare with an imperious one of her own.

‘Who are you, Mrs?’ the girl asked insolently.

‘I am Mr Macintosh’s wife, and I would mind your manners if I were you,’ Louise said, pushing past the girl to enter the foyer and call out, ‘George, I wish to speak to you.’

The girl stepped back and in the light Louise could see that she was very pretty. Louise stood for a moment before her husband appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘What do you want?’ he asked with his hands on his hips. ‘I thought that you had decided to leave.’

His rebuke caused Louise to feel a flush of fury but she forced herself to remain calm. ‘I would rather speak with you alone,’ she replied, glancing at the girl with an expression of distaste for her appearance. ‘Has our nanny gone away, George?’ she asked, climbing the stairs to confront her estranged husband.

She did not receive a reply. No doubt her husband had made the young nanny pregnant and quickly shipped her off to some country town until the girl had given birth. Louise knew that Macintosh money was being funnelled into the expenses, and she felt just a short flash of pity for the girl whom her husband had probably promised the world to.

‘You can leave us, Jenny,’ George said to the girl wavering in the foyer. ‘I wish to speak with Mrs Macintosh in private.’

The girl nodded and disappeared from the foyer to the kitchen.

‘I also notice that Herbert is no longer to be seen,’ Louise said. It had been Herbert’s job as the valet to answer the door to visitors.

‘He was old and useless,’ George answered. ‘I had to discharge him.’

‘Or was he seeing more than he should under this roof?’ Louise countered.

She did not get a reply from her husband who turned his back and led her to his library. Louise followed, closing the door behind her.