Force and Fraud (7 page)

The moral shock, succeeding to physical exertion, overcame poor Flora, and she fell senseless on the ground. Her incautious informant then screamed with all her might, “Och, murder! Sure she's kilt too! Och? What will I do?”

Flora was carried into the house and, after some delay, a doctor arrived, who prescribed a composing draught, and quiet. The latter remedy was not easily obtained in that agitated household. The hut-keeper's wife, a woman of some experience in sickness, volunteered her services; and a few hours later, the wife of a neighbouring squatter came to offer her sympathy and assistance.

Poor Flora's state was not likely to be much amended by the presence of either of her nurses, for although extremely kind and not devoid of skill, they were both afflicted with a morbid love for the
sensational
; and whilst in attendance on their patient, entertained each other with stories of accidents and adventures in the bush.

The squatter's lady had a tale of a murdered man who, some years previously, had been found tied to a tree, having died apparently in the greatest agony. The hut-keeper's dame related the capture and death of a bushranger, under circumstances equally appalling. Most graphically did these good wives detail the accounts of ghastly wounds and every horrible circumstance, talking
sotto voce
all the time but in that tone so painfully audible to the delirious invalid. And Flora, who lay in a state of half consciousness, both from the effects of her attack and its remedy, raved about her father, and also frequently uttered the name of Herbert Lindsey.

“I hope they will not see you, Herbert!”

“Oh! I would not have you meet my father for the world!”

“Yes, very soon there will be nothing to prevent our marriage!”

These were the disjointed exclamations of the feverish girl which, as will readily be imagined, created great wonder and dismay. These expressions, together with the symptoms of the patient were told to the doctor; but he made no comment, desiring, as before, that Miss Flora should be kept perfectly quiet.

A few hours after the news of McAlpin's death had reached the station, Pierce Silverton, who had previously heard of the calamity, arrived there. He had come with the intention of breaking the intelligence gently to the orphan girl, and therefore seemed very much shocked when told of her condition. He then resolved to seek Herbert Lindsey, and inform
him
of what had taken place.

But the lover too had already heard of the occurrence. On his return to his hotel, he found all its inmates in a state of the greatest excitement relative to the murder of McAlpin.

“Great God! You don't say so, Mrs Roberts?” exclaimed Mr Lindsey to his landlady, who came forward to relate her version of the disaster.

“Yes; it is too true! But, bless me, Mr Lindsey, how pale you do look! Here, take a little brandy.”

Herbert accepted that universal panacea for all evils, whether moral or physical, and – although by no means addicted to strong liquors – drank off the fiery draught as if it had been water.

“Poor Flora! I must go to her at once, Mrs Roberts!” cried Lindsey, as soon as he himself recovered from the shock of the terrible intelligence.

“Ah! Poor dear! They say she takes on greatly,” replied the sympathising hostess who, for some time, had been in on the lovers' secret.

At that instant, Pierce Silverton entered and, with some difficulty, convinced his friend that all attempts to see Miss McAlpin would be useless; a notification that greatly increased Lindsey's anxiety. Mr Silverton, however, could delay no longer, having been summoned to attend the inquest; the particulars of which have been already related.

The funeral was fixed for the following day, and Mr Silverton, though he entrusted the immediate arrangements to an undertaker, busied himself a good deal in mustering the principal gentry who resided in that locality. It was against
his
advice that Herbert Lindsey insisted on attending. Carriages of various kinds followed the hearse; after them came a long train of horsemen, chiefly squatters and farmers, who had been intimately acquainted with the deceased; and the procession was lengthened by a number of people belonging to the Freemasons' lodge, that of Odd Fellows, and several other societies. And thus the Son of the North was laid in his Southern Grave.

Two days of unusual excitement had passed away, and on the third the population in general began to suffer a recovery. The public mind being in this state, all business was out of the question; and when someone proposed a visit to the spot where the body had been discovered, the idea was adopted without a dissenting voice. Therefore, after fortifying themselves with the usual stimulants, away some dozen enterprising individuals started from the hotel of
The Wild Boar
.

On their way they met Harry Saunders, who was saluted by one of the party with the remark, “Well, Harry lad, thee'll have to look out for another maister, and I hope thee'll get a better; Mac was a gruff un.”

“Whate'er he was, he's dead and gone; and I won't hear a word agin the dead.”

“But what's thee going to do for a billet, lad?”

“Stay wi' the young mistress, to be sure, and maybe I shall have a young master one o' ise days. There's a gentleman I know of who – but, hang it, tisn't fair to blab.”

Harry was not much prepared to reveal his secret; the softer emotions that a love tale might call forth, being stifled by the more exacting interest attached to
murder
. The merits and the demerits of the deceased, the inquest, and the funeral, were all discussed; the male gossips almost rivalling the good wives whose taste for the sensational had been exhibited by the sick-bed of the orphan girl.

Amongst the party was a member of the Melbourne police who, perhaps, was not averse to gather any scattered hints afforded by local associations; for he well knew that the character of every individual in the neighbourhood would be freely canvassed.

Very little reticence in this respect was observed; a great many remarks being made which might have implicated several individuals. Fortunately for them they were, at the time of the murder, hundreds of miles from the scene.

The experienced eye of the official at once detected that there had been a struggle at the scene of the crime. The grass adjacent to the spot where the body was found was rooted up – as if by the scuffling feet; several twigs were also broken from the hardy scrub – some of which were clotted with blood, and to which adhered particles of human hair. Some of these hairs were raven black, slightly mixed with grey – easily identified as having belonged to the victim; but others scattered about were of a lighter colour. The dying man had probably grasped at the locks of his assailant, as several brown hairs had also been found between the cold and stiffened fingers.

McAlpin's revolver was discovered amongst the branches of the scrub; but the unerring and strong hand of the Highlander had been equally unavailing, as the weapon was still loaded. It was thought that McAlpin could not have been on horseback at the time of the attack, for the animal was found quietly grazing at a little distance. Perhaps, on that last journey his master had led him down to the creek; the heat of the day having no doubt rendered the horse, as well as his rider, extremely thirsty. This circumstance was remarked on: McAlpin, though harsh to his fellow man, was merciful to his beast.

“Weel, weel – his act was of mercy, and the Lord grant it to him now,” exclaimed an old shepherd, who had accompanied the Laird from his native land, and followed his fortunes ever since.

The policeman then examined the saddle-bags, which had evidently been ransacked. They contained a change of linen, but nothing else of any value whatever. The murderer might have been a thief, although he had not proved himself on this occasion a horse-stealer.

Souvenirs of the occurrence were sought by many of the party, the blood-stained twigs and scattered hairs forming a matter of dispute; but the latter were claimed by the official as
his
right.

“Hallo! What's this?” exclaimed one of the bystanders, as he stooped to pick up a large Bowie-knife.

“
That
has taken his life, the Lord grant that I may live to see the murderer swing one o' these days,” cried the faithful shepherd.

The knife was stained with blood, and on the handle was a small silver plate, engraved with the letters
U.L
. With eager curiosity, the crowd pressed forward to obtain a sight of the fatal weapon, which a few continued to touch; and then they went through pantomimic gestures, indicative of those the murderer might have assumed.

The official sternly bade them to
stand off
. Anyone might have taken him for a naturalist, who had caught a delicate butterfly and was apprehensive lest the down, which rendered
it so fair,
should be brushed from its wings, so careful was he that the knife should not lose the stain that made it so foul.

“Stop a bit. Here's something else,” exclaimed a keen sighted individual, as he drew forth a strip of linen from under the branch of the scrub. That also was polluted by a dark red stain; but it bore other distinguishing peculiarities. It was of fine lawn, something less than three-quarters of a yard in length, and a half-quarter in breadth; a selvedge running down one of the long sides, the other being frayed and ragged; the two ends were hemmed, and had a ribbed sort of border, the letters
U.L.
being marked in one corner. It was thus easy to perceive that this fragment of linen had once formed part of a pocket-handkerchief. This was also appropriated by the official and there were certain individuals in the crowd who envied him the possession of his treasures.

 

“Thee does look down-hearted. Harry lad. Come in an' ha' a nobbler; it'll rouse thee,” said the man who, on a former occasion, had invited Saunders to partake of a remedy to which he himself had recourse on all occasions of excitement. Harry accepted the offer, though he did not drain his glass with his accustomed cheerfulness. His entertainer then proposed a second, but this Harry refused.

“Did thee look as glum as that when the painter made thee picture, lad?” asked his inquisitive acquaintance.

“Drat the painter! I wish I'd never seen him. I never was so dashed in all my life,” replied Harry abruptly. Then, muttering some hasty excuse about being wanted at home, he rode off from
The Wild Boar
.

When he had proceeded a little way, he was overtaken by Mr Silverton, who asked him if he had accompanied the other men to the spot where the body was found.

“Yes, and I wish I'd been a thousand miles off,” was the reply.

“Why? Surely nothing fresh has occurred?” asked Pierce Silverton.

“Fresh? No. But you see, Mr Silverton, a man who loves truth had better keep a close mouth these times.”

“An honest man should never be afraid to speak the truth.”

“Not about his own doings, but there's a deal of deceit in the world.”

“Ah! I see. You are thinking of the murder; a shocking transaction, though not one usually termed
deceit.
It was a deed of violence and–”

“I wasn't thinking
of that
altogether; but you know, Mr Silverton, a man takes fancies sometimes, and likes people without knowing why.”

“True. That species of charity we should entertain for our fellow-creatures; it is a virtue we are all commanded to practice.”

“Virtue or no virtue, it's a thing that's apt to get a man into a fix. Did you look into
The Wild Boar
and see the things that the policeman has got, Mr Silverton?”

“Ah! I understand you now, Harry. I'm afraid we've a great trial before us.”

“There
will be
a trial, then? It's a sad world, Mr Silverton.”

“It is indeed, but let us hope that no friend of ours will be implicated in this affair. Come, cheer up. You did not put on that dismal face when Mr Lindsey took your likeness. I saw the sketch in his portfolio. Mr Lindsey and I are old acquaintances, you know.”

“And you never knew anything agin him?”

“No, not exactly, at least with the exception of his determined pursuit of Miss Flora; but love drives a man mad sometimes.”

“I don't see that, Mr Silverton. It's two years sin' I fell in love with Mary, the chambermaid at
The Southern Cross
; and though her father's turned me out of his house, I wouldn't do anything agin him. I don't mean to say that Mr Lindsey has done anything either; but I'm right down bothered, and no mistake.”

“I don't wonder that you are confused, and I respect your feelings too much to press this painful subject farther upon you, being convinced that no consideration would ever induce you to deviate from the path of truth. And if called upon, as I am to stand prominently forward in this matter, it is a great satisfaction to know that poor McAlpin had at least one honest and honourable friend, ever ready to cherish his memory and defend his child.”

Harry Saunders did not exactly understand why Mr Silverton should think it necessary to make such a speech, but the soft low tones fell pleasantly on his ear; and though the language was vague (a critic would have called it nonsensical) it conveyed a reliance on his sense of honour and manliness. Harry at once yielded up his judgment to the gentle flattery, and with the ready frankness of a bushman, he said, “Give us your hand, Mr Silverton. It's pleasant to know for a right-down certain truth that one is not talking to a murderer.”

“It is, indeed, Saunders, and we ought to thank Providence that she has not implanted such violent passions in
our
breasts,” answered Pierce Silverton, as he placed his soft white hand in the broad palm of his companion.

They proceeded for some time in silence till, on approaching the hotel of
The Southern Cross
, Mr Silverton said in a whisper, “If we should either of us have formed a suspicion respecting any individual, let us maintain the greatest reserve, and leave judgment to the Lord.”