To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (21 page)

‘I did not say that I was going to kill myself,’ Fenella answered bitterly. ‘I said that I would rectify the situation so that no shame comes upon the family name.’

‘What are your intentions?’ Patrick asked.

‘You may not have noticed, Father, but I am a grown woman living independently and able to make my own decisions without your permission. I have plans that I do not wish to reveal – to you or anyone else in the family.’

‘Know that I will always be there for you, as will your brothers,’ Patrick reassured.

‘George?’ Fenella asked. ‘Do you think George is not pleased at my sad situation?’

Patrick frowned. He did not know why Fenella would ask such a question. Despite his eldest son’s seeming indifference to suffering, Fenella was still his sister. ‘I think you are being a bit harsh.’

Fenella just shook her head. ‘I would rather that you leave me now, Father, as I have a lot to think about. I promise you that I will not do anything stupid.’

Reluctantly, Patrick respected his daughter’s wishes and turned to leave the house. He had one more stop before returning home but this time for a confrontation.

When his father had changed and driven to Fenella’s residence, George decided it was time to meet with Guy Wilkes and speak with him now that his father had learned of Fenella’s drug addiction and pregnancy. Wilkes had been alone and received George, inviting him inside where they shared a whisky.

Guy Wilkes reassured George Macintosh that he had no
intention of ever considering marriage with a woman who had betrayed his love for another – especially the American Randolph Gates. Satisfied, George bid his good evening and departed the house. His car was parked behind a thick hedge, out of sight of anyone driving up to Wilkes’ house, and George was about to slip the car into gear when he noticed the approaching lights of his father’s automobile. George turned off the engine and watched as his father parked his car near the entrance to Guy’s house in the leafy affluent suburb of Sydney. George was suspicious by nature but now more than curious as he watched his father alight from his vehicle and make his way to the front door. When the door opened he could hear his father’s voice raised in anger. Eventually, Guy ushered Patrick inside, closing the door behind him. George slipped from his car and moved stealthily to a window that looked into the living room where he saw his father and Guy Wilkes engaged in heated discussion. They stood face to face and George could clearly hear what was being said.

‘How is it that my daughter has an addiction to opiates?’ Patrick asked angrily. Wilkes reddened at the direct question to which he suspected the army colonel already knew the answer.

‘She was a willing participant,’ Wilkes answered, stepping one pace back from Patrick to make space between them. ‘I merely supplied her need.’

‘That does not sound like my daughter,’ Patrick growled. ‘I strongly suspect that you enticed her into using the drug. What is it, heroin?’

‘Yes,’ Wilkes replied. ‘She needed it because of the pressures of her work.’

‘You do know my daughter carries your child,’ Patrick said. ‘Do you intend to marry her?’

Wilkes walked across the living room to a teak desk and
turned to Patrick with hatred in his eyes. ‘I would not marry your whore of a daughter if she were the only woman left on earth, Colonel Duffy. Ask her friend Randolph Gates the same question.’

A cold fury came over Patrick, a feeling he recognised from his days on battlefields in Africa before he was about to kill. He checked himself. He would not kill this poor excuse for a man before him, but he would thrash him within an inch of his life. Patrick strode towards him.

Wilkes was startled. He was not used to men daring to challenge him. As a famous actor he led a somewhat protected life. The fury he saw in the other man’s face now, however, told him that he was in serious trouble. In desperation, he opened a drawer of the desk, producing a small, pearl-handled derringer pistol just as Patrick reached him. With his trembling hand outstretched, he pointed the pistol at Patrick who stopped in his tracks just a couple of paces away.

‘I do not intend to kill you,’ Patrick said calmly, ‘Merely teach you a lesson for the misery you have brought to my daughter and the shame you have inflicted on my family name.’

The threat of the gun had brought Patrick to a stop but Wilkes could see that any fear Patrick felt had been replaced with confidence. He was now in control. ‘Do you know, Colonel Duffy, I could shoot you dead and claim selfdefence,’ Wilkes said with a weak smile. ‘My story would not be far from the truth. I could simply say that you burst in and attempted to kill me because of your slut of a daughter’s current situation. I doubt that any court in the land would not see me innocent and the publicity would be very good for my career.’

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’ Patrick asked calmly, staring into Wilkes’ eyes.

‘No, but I doubt that it can be very hard to pull the trigger of this gun and do so,’ Wilkes replied.

‘Then, do it,’ Patrick challenged. Suddenly he could see a flicker of doubt in the other man’s eyes. That was enough time for Patrick to react. With amazing speed, he was on Wilkes, knocking aside the hand holding the derringer.

The gun went off with a crack and the small bullet ploughed into the wall. But Wilkes had not released his grip on the pistol and desperately fought to bring it up into Patrick’s chest. Patrick still had a grasp on the other man’s wrist, forcing him to turn the gun inwards. A second shot followed but this time the bullet did not pass harmlessly from the barrel.

Wilkes grunted, his grip on the pistol now gone, and it clattered to the floor as he slumped, clutching his chest. Patrick released him and, ashen-faced, Wilkes collapsed to the floor.

Patrick kneeled down beside the dying man. The bullet had entered his heart, rupturing it. Wilkes stared in surprise at the ceiling, sighed and closed his eyes. Patrick knew he was dead. In his lifetime he had seen many men die.

Outside the house, George watched in disbelief at the scene unfolding in the living room. His father had just killed Guy Wilkes! But he had also seen that he did so in self-defence. For a moment he was at a loss as to what he should do – but only for a moment. The devil had sent him an opportunity of a lifetime.

Patrick turned away from Wilkes’ body only to see his son standing in the doorway with an expression of horror on his face. Patrick was at a loss for words. He rose to his feet with the blood of Wilkes on his hands.

‘Father, what have you done?’ George asked, stepping into the room. ‘You have murdered Mr Wilkes!’ he continued, feigning his horror.

‘It was not murder,’ Patrick muttered. ‘It was a terrible accident.’

George shook his head in mock sorrow, looking down at the body. ‘I am afraid that it would not look that way to the police. You know that you could hang for the crime.’

Patrick stared at his son. ‘How is it that you are here?’

George turned to his father. ‘I drove up to visit Mr Wilkes and speak with him on a matter of business about Nellie. When I got out of the car I heard what I thought was a pistol shot and immediately entered the house to see you bending over his body.’

‘I was struggling to relieve Wilkes of his gun when it went off,’ Patrick explained. ‘Had you been here only moments earlier you would have seen that happen.’

‘What we have to do,’ George said, reaching for the silver case containing his cigarettes, ‘is to get you away from here as quickly as possible.’

‘I think that I should contact the police,’ Patrick said. ‘I will tell the truth and trust my fate to a jury.’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ George countered. ‘To do so would mean the newspapers getting involved, and the whole sordid story of Nellie’s condition being exposed for all the world to read about. You have to think about the family name. Think what damage it would do to your regiment’s reputation if their commanding officer is arrested for murder.’

Patrick listened to his son. If nothing else, George was extremely capable of turning bad situations around in business and now he was applying some of that cunning to their current situation.

‘Maybe you are right,’ Patrick reluctantly conceded. ‘I was never here.’

George lit a cigarette and patted his father on the back.
‘It is time to leave and let the police think that maybe a jealous husband did the deed. I am sure that Mr Wilkes has bedded one or two married women in his life.’

Patrick wiped the blood from his hands on the same handkerchief he had used for his daughter’s tears. He felt no remorse for killing Wilkes but did have some guilt that he had killed the father of his unborn grandchild. If only it had been Randolph Gates’ child and that the American was not tied to the mission ahead, things might have had a happier outcome.

After turning off all the lights to cover his exit Patrick departed the house. He was reminded that his own father, Michael Duffy, had once fled Sydney after killing a man in self-defence. The incident had brought about a lifetime of wandering across the globe as a soldier of fortune before his life was eventually taken in the wilderness of northern Australia.

‘The bloody curse,’ Patrick hissed under his breath. His grandmother had always told a doubtful Patrick it was real, but now he truly believed.

13

M
atthew was trapped in his trench as the Boer artillery scattered shrapnel across the rocky ground. He could see the projectile falling out of the sky directly towards him and there was nothing he could do about it. Suddenly, he knew he was flying on the wings of the great wedge-tailed eagle and that he was soaring high above the battlefield at the Elands River crossing. The young man tossed and turned under the eiderdown, moaning and whimpering. He felt great fear as shadowy figures reached up with deadly fingers to destroy him. He felt the bite of a bullet and woke, sitting up in a lather of sweat. ‘God almighty!’ he swore, shaking off the nightmare. He remembered now the things he saw in the company of the old Aboriginal warrior – war as he had experienced it as well as how it would be in the future.

The eiderdown fell away and the cold air of winter
caused Matthew to shiver. He slipped from the bed to pad across the room to where he kept a bottle of whisky. Pulling a dressing gown around his shoulders, he poured himself a stiff drink and swallowed it, allowing the fiery liquid to spread through his body. In the morning he was scheduled to join his cousin Alexander Macintosh and his friend Randolph Gates, and depart on a Macintosh coastal steamer for northern seas. The mission was on and there was no turning back. Matthew shook his head. He was getting too superstitious. He put his terrible dream down to it being nothing more than a nightmare inspired by his meeting in the ancient cave.

Patrick Duffy stood in his library. Despite the whisky he could not dismiss his turbulent thoughts. Had he touched the pistol that had killed Guy Wilkes? he wondered. But he was able to reassure himself that Wilkes had still been holding the gun when it discharged the shot that killed him. Had anyone seen him arrive and depart? He couldn’t remember anyone else being in the quiet street that night. Only George had been a witness to the body and he had sworn to provide his father with an alibi should questions be raised about his whereabouts at the time Wilkes was killed. George would say his father was with him that night in a business meeting. Maybe he had underestimated his son, Patrick reflected, taking a swig of the whisky.

The grandfather clock in the hallway outside his office softly chimed 3am. Patrick realised that he would need to get some sleep if he was to oversee the departure of the Macintosh ship on its journey north into German territory. Already, the disassembled biplane was packed into crates and stowed aboard as well as other supplies for the expedition.

Patrick placed the empty glass on his desk and left the library for his bedroom. He had killed men many times before and had been able to live with what he had done for Queen and country. But this time it was different. He was no longer on a battlefield fighting the Queen’s enemies, but in his own country. And this killing, albeit accidental, had occurred as a result of his sense of honour. Patrick knew that he would not sleep well. Thoughts of an ancient curse continued to dog him and he tossed and turned all night in his mansion on the harbour.

As arranged, they met with John Hughes at his office in Sydney’s Victoria Barracks for a final briefing. Only Hughes was in uniform and the men stood around his office in silence.

‘This afternoon your ship will steam for New Guinea and then on to German territory around Rabaul,’ Hughes said. ‘Your mission will be to go ashore at a pre-determined site, guided by Captain Macintosh, and assemble the BE.2. Once that has been accomplished, Mr Duffy and Mr Gates will fly a course along the coast, filming possible places for a naval landing. Once this is achieved, you will disassemble the aircraft and ship it along with yourselves back to Sydney. Tactical control will be in the hands of Captain Macintosh, who is to have overall command of the mission. Be assured, your efforts may prevent the loss of countless civilians here in the future. I don’t have to say how important it is that you don’t fall into German hands. If you do, I expect you to do the right thing by your King and country.’

‘Your king is not my king,’ Randolph said quietly.

‘Then I am sure Mr Duffy will do the right thing and shoot you himself, if it appears your mission has been
compromised by any sign of disloyalty,’ Hughes retorted, but with just the faintest trace of a smile. Nervous laughter greeted the British officer’s remark. ‘Are there any questions?’ Hughes asked in closing. There were none.

‘Good,’ Hughes said, reaching into his desk drawer to retrieve a bottle of fine Scottish whisky. ‘Gentlemen,’ he added, producing a glass for each man. ‘I think it is appropriate that I raise a glass to you and the success of the task ahead of you all.’

The bottle was passed around and each man filled the glass he was given. ‘Colonel Duffy, you should propose the toast,’ Hughes said, turning to Patrick who stood for a moment in silence.