The Ghost of Waterloo (23 page)

‘He made the bee his emblem,’ said the Patterer, ‘an unusual sign for a warrior.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘he admired the industry, tenacity and organisation of those insects. And I can tell you another seemingly soft side to him: he loved flowers, in particular violets, which recalled him to his childhood in Corsica, where apparently they abound.

‘You know, Josephine wore them when they married, and he always sent her violets on birthdays and anniversaries. His admirers put these two things together and there was a toast among Bonapartists – “To Corporal Violet!”

‘There was another connection too.’ She took the Patterer’s arm, ignoring the restlessness of Grenville, who was pointedly looking at his watch. ‘As the Emperor left for exile on Elba, he told his supporters he would return in spring, as with the shooting of the new violets.

‘He did, of course, and his serious followers had a secret identi fication system. Each would carry and produce a particular portion of a napoleon coin. A double-check was for one to ask, “Do you like violets?”

‘ “
Oui
,” was the
wrong
answer. “
Eh, bien
” – “well enough” – marked an adherent. He told me all this on St Helena, you know.’ She looked wistful.

‘I think we must go now, madam,’ insisted Grenville and, after tipping his hat to Dunne, he steered her away.

The Patterer walked and talked on his rounds, his mind filled with what he had just heard. Coincidentally, one item he read was the news that the drought gripping the colony had wiped out most hives of honey bees; Bonaparte would not be pleased! Seriously, a hive that once could produce 220 pounds of honey a year was silent. A hive of the hardier native stingless bees could survive, but could only offer four and a half pounds of honey a year. Even the demands of Aboriginals, who gathered wild bush honey, called sugarbag, could not be satisfied.

A safe distance from the town, another story told, sustenance was being given to the convicts and crew of the transport
Three Bees
. All were in quarantine, some on board, others at North Head or on Garden Island: ‘The colony awaits their good recovery,’ the report read.

Among his other recitations, there was a decided oddity: an advertisement by, certainly about, his manure-carrying Asiatic adversary John Shan. It announced that to celebrate in February the traditional Chinese New Year – this time the Year of the Dragon – Mr Shan was holding 200 examples of the mythic beast. They could be found at his Lachlan Swamps garden. That, decided Dunne, was a lot of dragons for the handful of Celestials in Sydney.

But he recited the advertisement for dragons, the honey story and the other tales with little heart.

More importantly, he felt he now knew why someone wanted worthless coins that each come in two parts; and why a mysterious figure at the hospital had misunderstood his wearing of a lavender hat band and asked him, ‘Do you like violets?’ Two thousand coins more than just hinted at a lot of plotters.

In Pitt Street, two factors came together and concentrated the Patterer’s mind: the reek of rum and hops told him, first, that he was near the pub where the castrato had been killed, and second, that he had fallen in step with Brian O’Bannion.

The landlord Sam Terry’s odd behaviour – running upstairs at the time of the crime’s discovery – still grated, and Dunne now saw a way to satisfy his curiosity, through the Irishman – who was an accomplished housebreaker and cracksman, able to open windows and doors and pick locks with as much ease as his silvered tongue and hot hands could find the keys to female hearts and unlock stays.

‘Brian,’ he said. ‘I would like to know what is in Mr Terry’s attic that is so valuable that it is worth braving an inferno to save it. It’s a job for you.’

O’Bannion, who once had not hesitated to break into the Police Chief’s office, shook his head. ‘You won’t get into that room. Even to approach it sets off the nightingale floor.’

‘The
what
?’

‘The nightingale floor; it’s an idea Sam Terry apparently got from the Chinese. He read it – no, heard it – somewhere. The boards in that corridor’s floor are tensioned so that they creak loudly – sing, people claim – under any human pressure.’

‘Well,’ said the Patterer, ‘there’s an answer to that problem.’

‘What, pray?’

‘Why, we’ll pit against it
our
nightingale!’

O’Bannion looked blank.

Chapter Thirty-one

The Patterer, Brian O’Bannion and Miss Susannah Hathaway paused on the doorstep of Sam Terry’s Angel Inn in Mort’s Passage. Dunne and the Irishman wore normal work clothes that would pass muster; the singer had put on a drab dustcoat and pulled her hair back under a mob-cap. She had scrubbed off any
maquillage
.

‘So, we’re clear now on what’s going to happen?’ said Nicodemus Dunne. ‘Susannah will perform and hopefully get the drinkers to sing along with her, I’ll join in and, if necessary, gammon Mr Terry and keep him distracted. You, O’Bannion, you’re the man who at a suitable time goes upstairs and uses his flash skills with locks to get into the attic. I just want to know what’s there. Our noise will mask the betrayal by the nightingale floor.’

The taproom they entered was spare, but clean and well lit. The Angel was no shebeen, a low drinking den named after the small drinking cup the Irish called a
sibin
. It served patrons in glasses – a good sign in a pub. Some offered only tin mugs, not only for economy’s sake but also as a not-so-subtle warning that fights with broken containers, called ‘glassings’, had happened there – and could again were glasses allowed. This room was crowded, mainly with soldiers from the barracks. Some of the men (there were few women) had formed a ring and were betting against a man ‘flying the mags’, a game in which he was tossing two halfpennies.

‘I’ve never performed so close to my audience,’ whispered Miss Hathaway. ‘I trust I’m decently attired, not too provocative.’

The Patterer smiled. ‘Be thankful you’re not a Parisian showgirl in 1812.’ As she frowned, he continued. ‘To steer the crowds from brooding over his disastrous assault in Russia, Bonaparte decreed that the girls dance with no under-drawers. Fear not, they refused.’

There was already some singing and, after a time Miss Hathaway joined in, then took over. She first essayed the love lament that had entranced the theatre crowd. She was received politely, but the general noise level remained low. She offered some tunes from Mr Gay’s
The Beggar’s Opera
, with more success. Even Mr Terry appeared and stayed to listen. The applause was loud as she finished:

But there was still not enough racket to suit the Patterer, so he took a hand in proceedings. He suddenly yelled ‘God save the King’, and began to sing. Some soldiers joined in lustily.

Now, these garrison regiments were nominally English – the 57th from depots in Middlesex and the 39th from Dorset. But many of these redcoats were recruits from Ireland, refugees from poverty, religious or political oppression or just adventure-seekers. As always, their Irishness shone through, particularly whenever it was polished by rum. They would fight fiercely for their regiment, but other old wounds festered.

‘Bugger yer King! Bad cess to ’im!’ shouted a large private.

Miss Hathaway stirred the melting pot as she began to pour out, accent and all, ‘The Wearin’ o’ the Green’, a ballad from 1795:

‘Stop!’ yelled Mr Terry, ‘I’ll have no “treason songs” here!’

‘Treason, is it?’ shouted a redcoat, and he punched a comrade whose singing had betrayed royal leanings. An all-in brawl soon staggered through the bar, enveloping even Mr Terry, who disappeared under a scrum.

Not particularly wanting to discuss in detail with an angry corporal the Pope’s parentage, the Patterer dragged his nightingale along the wall, skirting the fighting, and out into the cool safety of Mort’s Passage.

They received a parting shot from a bleeding face that appeared at the door and then disappeared back inside.

‘What did he say, I wonder?’ said the Patterer. ‘It sounded like “san van voght”.’

Miss Hathaway did not hesitate. ‘Almost right. He actually said, “
An t-sean bhean bhoct.
” “The poor old woman.” He means, of course, Ireland.’

Dunne gaped. ‘How the devil do you know that? And, for that matter, how did a treason song come so trippingly to your lips?’

Miss Hathaway smiled, then was serious. ‘When you live in Boston and mix closely with families called Kennedy and Fitzgerald, you learnt a lot like that. But enough of that for now. More to the point, how is our “poor young man”, our Irish burglar?’

As if on cue, Brian O’Bannion stepped out of the bar onto the street, flexing skinned knuckles and whistling a merry jig.

‘Top o’ the evenin’ to yer’,’ he said in a stage parody of his compatriots.

‘Well,’ said the Patterer, as they walked back along Pitt Street to the Hope and Anchor. ‘What did you find?’

‘It was like taking a titty-bottle from a babe,’ boasted O’Bannion. ‘The nightingale floor squealed like a virgin – beggin’ your pardon, miss. Nobody heard or cared, though you’ll be none too pleased with the result, I fear.’

‘What’s there?’ prodded the Patterer impatiently.

‘Just a table – more a bench, I suppose – a set of small scales, a watchmaker’s magnifying glass – a loupe, no? There was a small keg of fine, very fine sand. For blotting, like. Though it’s funny, there was no pen or ink on the table. No paper, either.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. Oh, a lot of books.’

‘Books. What sort? Account books?’

‘Aye, I guess so. I had to look quickly and it was dark. I didn’t know if the fuss below was the hue and cry for me! But yes, several books’ names started with “a” double “c” – accounts, I imagined.’

A germ of an idea entered the Patterer’s brain. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, his missus must have books on food there, too. One on “epicures” – what’s that, a fancy name for “greedy guts”, no? And two on “bacon” – how many more bloody ways can you eat it?

‘And you know what? The old bugger is a sporting feller. He must follow the gee-gees. A pile of books were labelled RACING – in capital letters.’

Nicodemus Dunne smiled. He bought a round of drinks and toasted his accomplices. Well may they say ‘God save the King’ or ‘God save Ireland’. For nothing could save Sam Terry’s secret from coming out.

Chapter Thirty-two

Nicodemus Dunne walked Susannah Hathaway back to her lodgings. As they parted at the front door, she hesitated. ‘Do you know the biblical story of Susanna and the Elders?’ she asked.

‘Vaguely,’ the Patterer replied. ‘Isn’t it about a girl who was wrongly accused of immorality?’

‘Yes, indeed. Two elders – dirty old men – sought her favours and when she rebuffed them they swore they’d take revenge. They publicly accused her of lying under a tree with a man. Everyone knew what they meant by “lying”. She was sentenced to death. But, in answer to a prayer, God sent to her the young Daniel – you know, the one of “in the lion’s den” fame? – and he separately examined the elders’ evidence. He tripped them up – each one described a different tree! She was freed and they were condemned.’

‘Good for her,’ said Dunne. ‘But why do I need to know this?’