Bony - 25 - Bony and The Kelly Gang Read online

  “The devil! What?” Grandma breathed, looking at Bony to be sure his face wasn’t cut to ribbons.

  “Nat said: ‘As one dinkum Irishman to another, why not call it a day? After all, this is your house, your whisky, and your ceiling,’ Red said: ‘What ceiling?’ and he looked up and saw the hole. He was sitting on the floor, mind you. He tossed the broken glass aside, and looked up. Then he looked at Nat, and Nat was smiling. Then he roared with laughter, and Nat offered to help him plaster it. And that’s the way it ended.”

  “All nice and friendly,” added Bony. “Red has his good points.”

  “And what was that about Kelso?” asked Grandma, shrewdly watching him.

  “Kelso!” Bony echoed. “Oh, he said something about doing me over like Kelso, or it might have been hell-so. Red was so worked up he couldn’t get the words out properly. Any­way, he was in good humour when we left him. The ceiling can be repaired with a step ladder and ten pounds of plaster of Paris. Told him I’d pay for it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Why should he?” Grandma’s eyes were opal red as they reflected the firelight. “Nat, will ye do something for me?”

  “What a thing to be after askin’ me,” he cried, again with the dreadful brogue. “Tell it quick.”

  She refused to surrender to his raillery, and it was clear that Mike, too, thought the moment serious. She said:

  “Will ye promise never again to stir Red up? He’s a good friend and a bad enemy. We don’t want enemies in Cork Valley ever again. Promise, Nat, my bhoy, promise.”

  “Of course, Grandma. I wasn’t thinking about the valley in general. You know, Red needles me, so I needled him in return. Didn’t think. Yes, I’ll be glad to promise that. Promise you anything.”

  “I believe you would,” the old woman said happily, and then could restrain her laughter no longer. “Say, Nat, how big is the hole in his ceiling?”

  “Couple of feet long by a foot wide, not counting the cracks.”

  “Put half his leg through it as well as his boot,” Mike said, joining in his grandparent’s mirth. “I thought to see him go up altogether, and out through the roof. Oh, Nat, that’s a trick and a half.”

  “And the next trick’s on the table getting cold,” interrupted his wife.

  Seated at his accustomed place with Joe on his right and Rosalie on his left, Bony wondered at himself being so happy among these people. For long periods he had found it so easy to forget why he was here. He was actually enjoying this sojourn among them. He had enjoyed every moment of the trip to O’Grady’s farm, and the smuggling of illicit liquor troubled him not at all. It was only at odd moments—when the matriarch watched him for the effect the name Kelso might have on him, for example—that he was reminded of a dead man whose demise he was here to investigate.

  Hard to remember he was a detective-inspector! Of course it was. There was Joe even now winking with ill-suppressed humour over the recent brawl with Red Kelly. There was dark and flashing Rosalie, giving him covert glances betraying her anxiety to hear if he had ‘posted’ her letter.

  The girl would be his immediate problem, and he would have to give thought to its solution. If handled properly he might gain much, and there again he was off at a tangent. He would have to tell her that Torby was dead, and he would have to use her grief to forward his investigation, tax her loyalty, perhaps, even to her own people. Thinking they might remark on his being too reserved, he said to Joe:

  “What is this Cork Valley Festival I’ve been hearing about?”

  The red-headed boy grinned and was about to answer for Joe, when he was prevented by Mike Conway. It was sur­prising how often that quietly spoken, unobtrusive man revealed a forcefulness of character only at moments of his own choosing. There was no ruggedness about him, any more than in his speech. When stepping down from the table and wielding the decanter he had shown the aloof detachment of a scientist terminating an experiment.

  “Our festival is something of a secret, Nat,” he said. “I hope no one tells you of its precise nature so that you will be pleasantly captivated by the spirit of it. What year was it first held, Tony?”

  The red-headed boy answered promptly:

  “Eighteen eighty-one.” The boy was delighted by the request, regarding Mike with open affection. No one feared Conway, no one of his own family.

  “And the day and the month?” pressed Mike.

  “The eleventh day of November,” was the prompt answer.

  Now Mike was smiling, and although the length of the table separated them, Bony could detect the smile in the dark, intelligent eyes.

  “Well, Nat, there is the original date,” Mike went on. You went to a good school, and I’m sure you didn’t waste your time there. Our festival is the oldest in Australia. It is unique because it isn’t held to attract tourists, it isn’t associated with the raising of money, and it is genuinely democratic in character. You may guess the motif.”

  “All right, I’ll try,” responded Bony, laughingly. “Now it can’t be a festival of flowers like the Bowral show, or a festival of pineapples, or a tuna festival, because … wait a moment. When is this festival of yours to be held?”

  “July the first,” he was told.

  “Then it cannot be a festival of flowers, a pea festival, a tuna festival, because the season isn’t right. Is it a potato festival?”

  “No,” replied Mike, and chuckled at a joke appreciated only by himself.

  Bony smiled at young Tony, and at several other children, all waiting with thrilled expectancy.

  “Melon Festival? Snowball Festival? Ah! Is it a Wine Festival?”

  Joe Flanagan broke into loud laughter. Mike tossed his head and smiled broadly. Old Mrs Conway laughed, and the children shrieked. One of them said Bony must keep guessing, and Grandma whispered hastily to Mike and his wife. Mike agreed, and said to Bony:

  “Anyway, Nat, while you’re thinking out more guesses, and you will be told when you guess right, what d’you say to giving some gum-leaf music at the festival? We have an accordian band and you could play in it, too. You could render a solo item now and then.”

  “I’d be glad to,” assented Bony. “But wait a moment. I know very few tunes; in fact only ‘Tipperary’ and ‘Danny Boy’. I’ve had no real practice for years. And besides, I suppose at the festival mostly Irish airs will be played.”

  Mike nodded agreement, and the old lady again hurriedly whispered.

  “There’s time to practise, Nat. Rosalie could play the Irish tunes for you to learn.”

  Now all eyes were directed to the girl who sat straight and smiled. Quickly she nodded, and Bony fancied he detected eagerness in the depths of her large and expressive eyes. He said:

  “Well, why not! If Rosalie will be patient with me. I mightn’t learn fast, but I’m a trier.”

  “They could practise on the old piano in the next room,” Mate Conway suggested, and was opposed by Rosalie.

  “That instrument hasn’t been tuned for years. I couldn’t bear to play on it. The one at school is all right. Nat could come there after school.”

  There was the hint of time spent on consideration, so Bony caught time by the throat.

  “All right, then. Thanks Rosalie. I’ll be there tomorrow when school comes out, and you can change over from arith­metic to music. I’ll gather some of my special leaves, and if we don’t raise the roof at the festival, I’m not Nat Bonnay. D’you know ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’? Can you play the ‘Irish Washerwoman’?”

  Rosalie nodded, and her eyes were bright with unwonted enthusiasm, causing Bony inwardly to shrink from the thought of her being hurt. Then ideas were discussed in general, and Bony learned there would probably be six or seven accordions, and half a dozen fiddles, and old Pat Mul­vaney would be bound to come with his warpipes. Joe Flanagan assured him it would be a good shivoo, and Bony was sure it would be with a band numbering all those instru­ments.

  The dinner ended and the children withdrew, and after th
e usual cup of wine had been imbibed, Mike Conway invited Bony to ‘talk awhile’ in his office. Sitting sideways at his roll-top desk, with Bony relaxed in a second chair, he opened with:

  “I’m glad you promised Grandma not to rouse Red up any more. He’s always been a difficult customer. As you so aptly put it, he’s got nothing to think with. He went to college like the rest of us, but they wouldn’t have him there long because of his temper and because they couldn’t knock any sense into him. So for peace’s sake, go easy on him, will you?”

  “Certainly,” Bony instantly agreed. “What happened this afternoon was my fault, but …”

  “I know. He’s the most irritating Irishman ever whelped. Given us a lot of trouble from time to time, but as I’ve told you he’s one branch of a family and we’re another. We all have to stick together or all fall apart. There’s something else.” The dark eyes were hard, the pupils almost an unrelieved slate. “Steve told me about the pistol young Brian carried, and how you made him give it up, and disposed of it. You did a good job, Nat, and we’re grateful. Grateful, too, that you didn’t mention it when telling Red off.”

  “Enough fuel on the fire, Mike. Yes, I couldn’t stand for carrying a pistol. Trouble started would mean trouble moun­tain high. No real intention of using it, but you never know.”

  “No, you never know. Anyway, young Brian will be going abroad in a few weeks, and I’m beginning to feel I shall be easy in mind when you take over the scouting. In spite of what I said about not being dependent on the trade, the trade is valuable. Keeps us a lot of contacts outside. We don’t send raw stuff out, only properly matured stuff, as you can judge for yourself. No jungle-juice about the Cork Valley product. Family secret handed down for generations. You have any private thoughts on those bushwalkers?”

  Bony nodded thoughtfully, and took time before replying:

  “Could be police. Could be excise men. They were excise men who nailed a couple of fellers with a still out from Tenterfield a few years ago.”

  “We’ve had them down here, too, in the past years. What I don’t understand is why those two are operating just now. We haven’t been trading since last August. Never do in the summer. Now, on our first trip this winter, they are poking about.”

  “Well, why let it worry you?” Bony asked blandly. “Two among these mountains are like a couple of bull ants on a stick floating down a flooded creek. You want to swim the creek, you don’t play with the stick when crossing. The next time you send a pack train to O’Grady, let me do the scouting. And not immediately in front of the train, but two days before it starts.”

  The dark Irish eyes studied Bony’s face, feature by feature, and the dark hair glinted in the light when Mike nodded his agreement.

  “Another thing, Mike, I ought to be out keeping an eye on those bushwalkers. I’d find what they are after, and who they are, and when the mountains were clear of them.”

  For a long minute, Mike Conway gazed at a point beyond Bony.

  “I’ll think about it, Nat. Anyway, there’ll be no more trips until after the festival.” He smiled. “That is a very important affair, Nat.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Musicians

  THE MAIN result of the smuggling trip to Timothy O’Grady was that Bony received the freedom of Cork Valley, and, wisely, he did not endanger it by a rash word or an impatient action. While a colleague would have been anxious about his wife and family, or perturbed that his superiors would expect him to have the assignment completed and nicely wrapped up within the proverbial five minutes, Bony was confident of his wife’s understanding of his long absences, and scornful of the opinions, expectations or desires of any superior. He would conduct the inquiry in his own manner. What people sitting behind desks happen to think wasn’t the smallest consequence, except when they interfered, and Bony was quick to resent this.

  He would like to have investigated those bushwalkers, and had they proved to be policemen or other officials, he would have led them a dance they would have remembered for a long time. However, in view of Mike Conway’s persistent refusal to grant this permission, he was happy to accept it and wait for the mountain to come to Mahomet.

  He was not now expected to return immediately after dinner to his room under the shed. Old Mrs Conway liked to detain him for a few minutes, and, the night following the return from the trip, Joe Flanagan invited him to a friend’s house to watch television. Perhaps for Joe, as well as Bony, the advent of television was a boon to mankind, since it prevented idle gossip.

  Back at his digging, Bony spent the following days bene­ficially exercising both his body and his mind. He was enter­tained again by the kookaburras and the wren, and he had several visitors. One morning Red Kelly rode over to tell him that he had repaired the ceiling, adding: “To hell with you, Nat, me bhoy. How do you do it?” Joe Flanagan came along one afternoon, hunting up hares, and he was joined by Jack from the big house who brought some stiff paper and a pair of shears. He asked Bony to cut a pattern for boots for horses.

  Then there was the visit by Rosalie, accompanied by the schoolchildren who carried digging trowels, spirit jars, and a collection of boxes. It was a fine and warm afternoon, and she explained to Bony that they were all on a botany lesson. The elder boys were interested in the things that crept and crawled under the large stones which had fallen from the walls years ago, and the girls gathered specimens of plants which Rosalie named for them. No one was at all interested in the kookaburras, one of which now ran the risk of being speared by the fork as Bony worked.

  The inevitable question was put to him when all the chil­dren were busy. Rosalie was aware of Grandma Conway and her spy glass, so she stood in an attitude of idle curiosity, watching the tubers being brought into the light of day.

  “Did you pass on my letter, Nat?”

  “I managed to give it to Bessie as you asked me to,” Bony replied, not straightening his body, keeping his head low. “I hope it will turn out all right. Not against the Conways, that is. Bessie O’Grady said she’d do anything for you. Said for me to give you her love and hopes to see you at the festival.”

  “Thank you, Nat. When are you coming for the music lessons?”

  “Whenever it suits you, of course. We should begin soon.”

  She went off with the children and then, within half an hour, as they were about to pass him on the way back, she suggested the school at five o’clock, and he agreed. Now and then he looked down at the party as it moved slowly beside the old wall to the river, and he hoped that his impulsive de­cision would not lead to disaster. The death of Hillier, or Torby, would inevitably hurt Rosalie Ryan, but it had to be accepted, and the hurt might be lessened by gentleness and sympathy.

  At ten minutes to five he found Rosalie in the school-house correcting papers. The school was conducted in a single classroom of the cream-painted building set upon its area of asphalt playing ground, dominated by the tall white flag mast.

  “Oh, there you are, Nat! Are you ready?”

  “Yes. I’ve brought my gum leaves, and I’m glad the children haven’t stayed behind to hear us. It could be pretty weak at first.”

  Seated on a stool beside her at the piano, an expensive semi-grand, they faced across the room to the only doorway. There was a large window on the left-hand side; it had no blind and was shut. Beyond it across the playground were the settlement houses, and the sun was pouring the last of its rays across the room to the door which Bony had been careful to close. Privacy was assured until the interior lights were switched on, when anyone outside could see the musicians.

  Rosalie began to play and he watched her fingers and admired her hands. She wore three rings, each a setting for an opal which he, knowing something of opals, valued at not less than a hundred pounds. His gaze moved from them to her wrists, to the white cuffs of her blue dress, which made it look a little like a uniform, to her face in profile, and finally to her hair. She said, the school teacher in command:

  “You are no
t playing.”

  “I was listening to you playing to me.”

  “Look at the music. I’ll begin again. Are you sure the others didn’t see you give the letter to Bessie O’Grady? Now, with your leaf, please.”

  Rosalie played ‘Come Back to Erin’ and Bony did his best to accompany her. His mind was not on the work. He was away across the mountains, on that tor where he had steamed open the envelope and read the letter. He was watching again the flames of the little fire consuming it, seeing the white words on the black paper: ‘Dear Eric’. His right hand held a pencil to paper he had brought with him, and the pencil wrote: ‘Superintendent Casement. I am angry because men are masquerading in and about Cork Valley as bushwalkers. It was agreed, no interference, no surveillance. Kindly issue instruction to have them withdrawn. I am progressing as always on my assignment. Warm personal regards. B.’

  “That was terrible,” said the music teacher. “We will try again.”

  “I was thinking of Bessie,” he lied, and the wailing of the leaf was like the wind whispering to the Blarney Stone. The noise stopped long enough for him to add: “She said she’d made up her mind to marry Brian Kelly.” ‘Come back to Erin’ continued. They conversed in this manner.

  “I wouldn’t let her,” Rosalie said with conviction.

  “I much doubt that you or anyone in the wide world would stop Bessie doing anything she made up her mind to do.”

  “Bravado, Nat. Bessie is like that, on the outside.”

  “When I gave her your letter she didn’t have time to glance at the name and address. She told me to tell you she guessed who the letter was for. She did, too. You see, I knew.”

  “That his name is Hillier.”

  “Yes. Bessie said that an Eric Hillier stayed with the Con­ways for some time. She said he was a teacher, and that he was also a geologist. Someone told her about him. You didn’t, and that made her think you came to like him after she visited here at Christmas.”