The Steam Mole (17 page)

“Sir. They're
from
the police,” interrupted the clerk. “I tried …”

“Hush,” said the captain. “Don't get yourself a longer sentence.”

Blood drained from the man's florid face. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Mr. Manuel in an entirely different tone.

“We're needing a contract surrender for a man in your employ who has been drafted into the WMP, in accordance with Proclamation 322. We have reason to believe he can assist us with an ongoing investigation,” said Lieutenant Ambrose.

Manuel bit his thin lip. “Sir. I must inform you that Mr. Barnabas,” he made no pretense that he didn't know who they were talking about, “is dead.”

Linda looked at Nicky. Had he known about all of this when she'd asked his advice about Clara? Surely not. She hadn't known more than Tim's first name.

“So why the secrecy?” asked the captain.

Mr. Manuel continued, obviously trying to look both respectful and sad. “We didn't want to sell his contract until the next of kin had been notified.”

Dr. Calland looked as if she'd been hit with a wet sack. Some of the other submariners looked just as shocked.

“How did he die?” asked Linda. She didn't quite believe him, and it might have come out in her voice, because Mr. Manuel looked as if he was about to speak harshly to her for her impertinence. And then he obviously realized that putting down a chit of a schoolgirl, right now, would be a bad idea.

“Um. An industrial accident with the cutting head of the drill,” he said. “Much regretted. We're having an investigation, but it appears that he willfully breached safety rules,” said the man, tugging his earlobe.

“His body will have to be taken back to the
Cuttlefish
, for a submariner's burial,” said the captain heavily.

“Er. The body was buried. In the heat, you know…”

“Just one question,” said Lieutenant Ambrose who had plainly got his wind back after the shock. “Just why hasn't this been reported to the WMP?”

Now it was Manuel's turn to look as if he'd been hit with the wet sack. He certainly started sweating. “Er. Accidental death. We're in the process of filling in the forms.”

“We're going to have to exhume the body, and then get witness statements,” said the lieutenant.

The official could have broken a drought with his face. “We don't know where the body is,” he admitted. “Look. We had problems. Rioting at that station. We couldn't afford to lose more construction time. We've had to fly up a new station manager. I'm…I'm sure it's all something that can be dealt with. I…I really need to consult my superior.”

“Good,” said Lieutenant Ambrose. “I think we'll talk to him, too. Perhaps before you explain. Let's go.”

“Uh. We can't just burst in on the general manager!”

“Watch us,” said the captain grimly.

Someone had, however, obviously run to warn the man. His secretary flapped at them ineffectually, but the office was empty. The telephone's ear horn lay on the desk, and the speaking horn dangled from its cable. “Where has he gone?” asked the captain. It was politely said…but in such a way that it would have cut through a force ten gale.

“Uh. He just stepped out…” The secretary swallowed, looking at the hard faces around his desk. “The back exit.”

“Who was he trying to call?” asked the lieutenant.

Obviously the secretary decided lying wasn't worth it. “Uh, Senator Wattly. But the telephones are out.”

“Who did you have on the back door, Ambrose?” asked the captain.

“Gibb and Nichol, sir.”

The captain smiled savagely. “I think we'll conduct our interview down there. In the meanwhile, Willis, I think this young man will help you to find any documents relating to this matter, and will tell you and Thorne all he knows. I'm sure he doesn't want to be hanged next to his boss.”

Linda didn't know much about the law, but she was sure this wasn't the way the Westralian Mounted Police normally operated.

On the other hand, Clara was her friend, and this smelled of something very nasty that they were trying to bury, and the
Cuttlefish
crew were getting results. It might be yet another false lead. Whatever happened, Linda knew there'd be real trouble from the crew of the
Cuttlefish
, and from Dr. Calland, if Tim really was dead. She could tell by the expression on their faces, and the tone of their voices, that they liked him too.

The bluster and demands for a lawyer and complaints about police brutality from the general manager of Discovery North Railroads were met by the captain's most unpleasant, tigerish smile. “Who said we were the police? You say you have friends in high places. We're submariners. Barnabas was one of our own. He had friends in
low
places. We might even have to take you to join them…unless I get answers
now
.”

They got them. But they didn't help much. Mr. Rainor knew nothing about Clara. He didn't care if his station manager reported that a contract worker had been possibly murdered and that he had problems with a riot. He'd told his staff to make the problem go away and get the drilling going again. The Westralian Mounted Police would take days to get there, days to investigate. Drilling would be interrupted, and might even be stopped. Rainor didn't, plainly, care, so long as that didn't happen. “We can't afford any delays. I sent one of my best men up there, my troubleshooter, Adrian Ness, to replace McGurk and get it all working as fast possible.”

“And what about this death?”

“Um. I'm sure Ness will get to the bottom of it. Look, we can't afford delays. I will see that compensation is paid—generous compensation—if we can just let it go.”

“Brush it under the carpet, you mean?” said the lieutenant, dangerously.

“Not, not really. Just deal with it expeditiously. Who is it going to help to hold the work up? Ness is a good man. He'll fix it up. Barnabas's family will be well compensated.”

“What have you heard from this ‘troubleshooter'?” asked the captain.

“Er. Just that work had resumed. He wouldn't trouble me with details.”

“I think we need to speak to him,” said the captain, in a voice that said “now” if not sooner.

“Impossible, I'm afraid. You could send him a telegram. There is a train from Sheba every day.”

“How much compensation are you prepared to pay if we don't pursue enquiries about what happened to Barnabas?” said the captain.

“Oh. Should we say, a hundred pounds?” said the managing director, looking like a weasel who has just spotted a way out.

“I think that very cheap for one of our own,” said the captain evenly.

“Um. Five hundred? But I'll need a signed agreement you won't pursue it.”

“Ten thousand,” said the captain. “And we'll have that agreement signed right here. Get me paper, pen, and ink, boys.”

It was brought. “In your own hand,” said the captain. “Write ‘I, Robert Rainor, do hereby agree to pay the
Cuttlefish
and her crew the sum of ten thousand Australian pounds not to pursue the matter of the suspicious death of Timothy Barnabas.' Sign it.”

“What's to stop you pursuing it anyway?” asked Rainor.

“We'll sign a similar document, you can choose the wording, on our receipt of the money,” said the captain.

“But I don't see that I have to sign this at all. I'll get you your money right now.”

“Of course you do need to sign it. We're not making you do so, but we won't believe you unless you do. We can't take the money, because we don't know if Barnabas is dead or not, until we hear from your man Ness. Unless,” snarled the captain, “you are lying to us about being able to talk to him.”

Rainor scrawled his signature.

“Right. We'll need a couple of witnesses,” said the captain. “You, miss.” He pointed at Linda. “You are not one of the crew. Write ‘witnessed by,' and sign it, please.”

Linda did, despite her horror at the idea of them taking money and leaving. But she had to complain. “You can't do this, Captain Malkis. The police…Clara…”

He winked at her. “We can deal with that. Lieutenant, please sign it too.”

Lieutenant Ambrose did, while Linda was still wondering about it all.

“Right,” said the captain. “I think you can escort Mr. Robert Rainor to Ceduna Central, Lieutenant. They should at the very least be able to hold him on the intent to pervert the course of justice on the basis of this offer. Might manage bribery charges, too, as you
Cuttlefish
crewmen are now police officers.”

“I can't begin to tell you how much trouble you are going to be in,” snarled Mr. Rainor, as he realized he was being escorted to the police station and not to the harbor.

Linda could imagine. The big six companies had huge influence and controlled nearly everything.

That didn't seem to worry the captain, or Dr. Calland. The captain laughed grimly into the man's face. “You've lived too long in a world where everything has a price, Rainor. The lives and honor of my men are not for sale. I might have let you loose, if you hadn't tried that. You'll try to bribe and lawyer your way free, no doubt. I think we'll go and call on your friend Senator Wattly, too, before you start squalling about wrongful arrest. You can claim we forced it from you, but then you're going to have to explain your earlier cover-up. You find yourself on the receiving end of what you were doing, Rainor. You've got away with this sort of thing for too long, and I'm guessing this will be the dam-burst. You'll find your staff telling the story of the boss running away and sneaking out of the back door to
everyone they know. And a fair amount else, I suspect, or I've no experience of being in command of men.”

“Wait until my lawyers get into you,” snarled the man.

“They'll have to come north to find me,” said the captain. “I have one of my crew to search for, and a young lady to find.”

“Your Grace, the news in from Queensland isn't positive. They've so far recaptured or killed all the escapees but four. Unfortunately, some of those killed early on, before orders were given that Jack Calland was to be taken alive, were just shot and left where they fell. And in the tropics…well, the bodies are in no state to be identified. One of those may be Calland. Or not. The captured prisoners…They are aware that they're in danger of being shot. And somehow that we're after one prisoner, alive. So they're not being cooperative about identifying themselves.”

Duke Malcolm pursed his lips, shook his head, and sighed in irritation. “And of course there are still four missing. They've been gone nearly four days now. Calland could be one of those, I suppose, knowing the luck we've had so far. Well, what chances do they have of capturing them? Does Colonel Debrett in Queensland give any assessment?”

“They've got some aboriginal trackers on the job now, Your Grace. They're exceptional trackers, the natives, and are going to find them, if possible. But a lot of the prisoners are aboriginals too, and it could be that those are the escapees, and Calland could be dead or in custody already. It's harsh country. The only positive thing seems to be that they're sure they've stopped them before they got farther east to the more populated areas. They're fairly certain the prisoners are inside their cordon. They've had to use some men from the Hussars to make it effective. Those were men who were being saved for the push to Sheba.” The officer sighed. “It's a mess, Your Grace.”

Duke Malcolm did, at times, appreciate frankness like that. Especially when it concurred with his own conclusions. “Keep me posted. How are the military preparations going otherwise?”

The duke could see the major's shoulders lift slightly. “They have set things forward just in case there have been any leaks. It should, however, take a while for the rumor, let alone news, to percolate through to Western Australia. They're waiting on a last fuel delivery. Unfortunately, the vessel has been delayed at sea.”

Rested, rehydrated, even better fed than he'd been in a while, but very stiff, Jack struggled to get walking that evening. The cold, cooked big lizard tasted rather more like lizard than chicken in the afternoon. They'd wrapped it in leaves and buried it to keep the flies off, so it had added eucalyptus flavor and sand crunch. It was food, however, and they ate as they walked. Once his muscles warmed and loosened up he began to try to draw the boy out as they walked west under the stars.

“Once we get away from the soldiers where are you going to go?” Jack asked.

“Not sure. Got some cousins down Jericho way working as stockmen. That's what Pa did when me ma was alive. Maybe I'll go to look for them. I'd go to me uncle, but he got killed by some railway-man near Boulia. Railway-man was out shootin' and he saw my uncle and shot 'im. He was good bloke, my uncle. My ma's people. He took me in the bush, taught me how to be a man. I live with him for three years. Otherwise…I don' know. My da's woman, she don't want me back, 'cept to steal for her. And she tol' the coppers I done it and it my fault.” Lampy scowled. “It wasn't. When the drink gets in him he was bad. Ain't going back there. Anyway, that's where they'd come look for me.”

“Won't they look with your cousins?” asked Jack.

“Aw, they think we all look the same. And me cousins ain't going to tell them me name.”

Lampy didn't look particularly like the other aboriginal prisoners to Jack, but he kept his council to himself. It worried him, though. The boy had kept him alive.

“And you, Irish?” asked Lampy.

“Call me Jack. I am going to look for my family. I suppose…if I fail to find them, I'll try to get back to my own country.”

“You should bring 'em here. Best country in the world,” said Lampy sincerely. “You get to know it, and everything a man could want is out here, my uncle say.”

He meant it. Despite the fact that they were in a desert, where if you were out in the sun in January it could easily get to a hundred and twenty degrees where man could die of heat, and Lampy was a second-class citizen, or by the sounds of it, worse, in Westralia. “It's pretty warm,” Jack said.

“You learn to live with it. The plants and the animals—Hush.” The youngster stiffened like a bird dog catching the scent or sound of prey.

Which was appropriate, seeing as what he heard was a bird.

A very big bird, on a nest.

“We need a boobinch,” said Lampy.

Jack's sense of humor was beginning to reassert itself. “Now, I knew I'd be needing one of those! What the devil's a boobinch?” he asked quietly.

“We go back to the river,” was the nearest he got to an explanation.

So they went back to the dry watercourse, and Lampy scavenged among the dry wood debris, coming up with a hollow stick about fourteen inches long and about three inches in diameter. The bottom was blocked with some slightly damp clay that was the only sign that water had been there. Lampy hastily flattened off the top. “You hit like this, see.” He showed Jack how to tap it. It made an odd
booming sound. “Now you go there, down that little gully. You hit the boobinch till I tell you to stop.”

He gave orders well, thought Jack. “What are you going to be doing?”

“Stealing eggs from the emu. You stop and I get kicked. He thinks you his missus, and he'll come look.”

Jack had some idea of the size of the emu, and he knew being kicked by a six-foot-tall flightless bird was no joke. He hoped it wouldn't be disappointed to find he wasn't its missus.

But to his relief it was Lampy rather than the male emu who came along first, with four eggs—
big
eggs, dark in the moonlight. They walked on, talking about the country, about the wildlife, about the dingoes, and about what had got them into this situation.

“I suppose I made some choices. It was either me or Padraig, and I believed that the rebellion would be less hurt by me being in jail than by him,” said Jack. “I hadn't really thought too much about what it would mean to me…or my family.”

“Yeah. You can't really get what being inside means until you're there,” said the boy.

Lampy wondered just why he'd started talking. He usually carefully avoided mentioning he could read and write. It only brought you trouble. But when Jack asked he admitted to it. “I been to school. Mission school. We lived next to the mission for a while before ma died. Them nuns!” He shook his head. “They was strict. Were strict. But you can't talk like they want, or people think you all up yerself.”

“Heh,” said Jack. “I learned to speak a broad south Irish brogue for that very reason. It was almost like having two languages. One for school, one for playing with the other boys back at my father's place.”

Lampy had been slightly surprised to find out that it wasn't just him who had done this. “True, an' then you get careless an' one slips
into the other, and you get into trouble. Mind you, some of it goes back around. Even them nuns called me ‘Lampy' because ma did. Ain't the name I was given. She just called me that.”

“Why?”

Even as he said it, Lampy wondered why he was explaining himself. Maybe because no one had ever asked before. It was private. A last thing between him and his mother. “The nuns taught us this song ‘Give me oil my lamp keep me burning, burning, burning' and I come home singing it. I was just a little 'un just starting school. Ma loved it. Made me sing it all the time.” He didn't say:
Even when she was dying and I was twelve years old
. “She called me her little Lampy, and pretty soon everyone did.”

“It happens like that.”

“I stick by it, now she's dead. It's kind of respect.”

“It is,” said Jack. And he seemed to understand. Or at least that's what Lampy read in it. “How old were you then?”

“'Bout twelve. Pa went off the rails, well, more than before then. Moved around, nearer to the city on the coast. Me uncle, he came an' took me away. Back to me mother's people. I stayed with him, we'd move around, work a bit, go back to the bush a bit. It was good. Did that for two, two and a half years.”

“Then what happened?” asked Jack.

Lampy walked silently for a while, then said, “Then he got shot and I went back to my Da.” Which was a very short version of despair, anger, and hurt. “He got him a new woman, but he was drinkin' real bad. They neither of them was glad to see a half-abo son turn up, but he give me a roof. He was all right until the booze got him. Couldn't hold a job though, and they was makin' do…with stealing and selling mostly. I'd learned to be good with sheep, see. So he send me out to get one when there was no food in the house, and they'd eat, sell meat, and be all right for a bit. I just decided I was going to cut out of there, go lookin' for me cousins…but I fetched them one last sheep. I got back with it…he'd been on the grog and
was layin' into Carol, that tallow-haired woman of his, and she see me come in, and I sing out to him to stop it, I'd brought the mutton. And she runs to me. He comes after her with a stock whip and I tried to take it off him. Only there was an axe and he grabbed that instead. And…and we fought. He was bigger than me, an' we fell over.”

They walked in silence for a while. Jack didn't chase it, just waited for it come out.

“He got cut, really bad. And she run and got two coppers. I should have run too…but I was trying to stop the blood.” There had been so much blood.

“The judge said I was a black thief and had killed a white man, see. But I'm under age to hang. So they put me in jail to die.”

Looked at one way, Jack could see that the boy was a thief and murderer. Looked at another, he was a loyal son who did what his father told him to do, who had then tried to protect his stepmother from his drunken father. The worst part, for Jack, was that Lampy saw himself as the former, at least some of the time, and hated himself for it. And now that he was getting to know the boy, he was also coming to realize that “being inside” was tough on any man, but for Lampy it had been far worse. Jack could see it by the way he touched the land and tasted the air. It must have been like caging an eagle.