Published: 3 Nov 2022

Three days had passed since Tom Hadley was taken into custody and even in his obvious unstable state of mind he held against all questioning. One moment he would be coherent and defiant the next jabbering but still held to account Dev had indecently attempted to solicit favours from him. As for O’Keefe’s wish to search Hadley’s premises, that had to be postponed because of an incident between the newly developing Richmond push and that from Stephen Street. The rumble had been quite nasty as knives were drawn and used as well as firearms, with two dead and another three in a bad way, one of whom died from his injuries some days later.

Dev had kept his promise to meet with Jones and Fisk on the Sunday but although much was attempted no one had heard from John Luck. It was said he had left for Sydney without leaving any forwarding address. The following day Jones departed for his work at Koo Wee Rup and Jack to the Military. On both accounts it was sad parting for Dev as he was loosing the last connections to his past, even if both Jones and Jack had promised to keep contact.

Eventually O’Keefe had opportunity to search Hadley’s house and after bringing the prisoner from the cells and ordering a paddy-wagon they were on their way to North Fitzroy, with O’Keefe and Turner taking a separate Hansom cab to follow. On the way Hadley gripped tightly to the wagon’s bars loudly demanding to know their destination.

“To the gallows,” the driver shouted back in joyous tone.

“I haven’t had my trial yet!” Hadley nervously responded.

“No need, it’s quicker to hang you first and have the trial later,” the driver continued in jest. Hadley obviously believed the guard and went into panic but came partly back as they entered into the street where he lived.

“What are we doing here?” Hadley demanded as the wagon stoped outside his house.

“You will have to ask the boss,” the driver says as O’Keefe’s cab arrives behind the wagon.

Once inside Hadley became quite chatty, possibly the familiarity of his surrounds was giving him fresh courage. O’Keefe sat Hadley down in the parlour while he commenced to go through drawers and cupboards.

“Have you a warrant to go poking you noes into my belongings copper?” Hadley demands.

O’Keefe holds to his silence while continuing his searching.

“I don’t know what you expect to find,” Hadley laughed believing he was on the threshold of winning, as he assumed O’Keefe was depending on breaking his damaged spirit.

“Did you murder your associate Mr. Stanley Bryce?” O’Keefe quietly asked while reading through a number of letters he found in a drawer.

“You’ve got nothing on me copper,” Hadley laughed.

O’Keefe finds a sample of Hadley’s writing and passes it to him, “is this your handwriting?”

“What if it is?”

“Did you pen the note to meet Mr. Bryce at Milk Wharf?”

“That wasn’t my hand,” Hadley laughed and sharply turned towards Constable Turner, “can you believe this stupid walloper?”

Turner remains quiet.

“Like all wallopers as dumb as shit.”

O’Keefe quietly approaches Turner without responding to the outburst and moments later the police constable takes the stairs towards the bedrooms.

“I have another question for you Mr. Hadley; do you remember a street kid Marcus Finn?”

“No,” Hadley lied,

“Did you murder Marcus Finn?”

“What!”

“Again it is a simple question, did you murder the street kid Marcus Finn?”

“Of course not!”

“That shirt you are wearing, who is your tailor?”

“Harry Stafford but with all your snooping I should think you already know that.”

“Yes I must admit I do already know,” O’Keefe says with a grin of satisfaction, “You like fine clothing Mr. Hadley?”

“What is wrong with looking your best,” Hadley laughs as minute by minute his confidence is growing. He looks upon the suit of his adversary, “you could do with a visit to Harry Stafford yourself,” he says referring to the well worn suit O’Keefe was wearing. While Hadley spoke he continuously glance up the stairs as Turner had been absent for some time.

“What do you expect to find, a signed confession,” Hadley makes light.

“More than enough to hang you Mr. Hadley, of that I am sure,” O’Keefe says as Turner returns.

“I found it,” Turner approaches holding up a blue shirt.

Hadley appears confused towards why his clothing had anything to do with the case at hand.

Turner passes the shirt to O’Keefe, “is this your garment Mr. Hadley?” O’Keefe asks.

“You know it is,”

“A simple yes or no will suffice,”

“Yes it is mine,”

O’Keefe turns the shirt to its tail and holds it out for Hadley to view. “How did you damage this shirt?”

“I couldn’t say but if my recollection is correct on a nail in my shed.”

O’Keefe removes a small rent of cloth from his pocket and matches it against the garment. “A perfect match wouldn’t you say?”

“Don’t know,” Hadley simply answers.

“Do you know where we found this patch?”

“Don’t know,”

“It was caught up on a tie of wire that a Marcus Finn used to hold his trousers together.”

“Don’t know,” Hadley’s expression went white then flushed with fear. His thoughts returned to that night long ago when he clobbered Finn and threw his body into the river. He did so as at that time he thought it was what Bryce wished for but in doing so had driven a wedge between himself and Bryce.

“Mr. Thomas Hadley, I am arresting you for the murder of Marcus Finn, what have you to say for yourself?”

“Fuck you copper!”

“Take him away,”

As Turner and the guard forced Hadley to his feet he again appeared to loose all composure and collapsed to the floor, having to be dragged from the house to the wagon. He never again spoke.

Back in his office O’Keefe was going over his report on the incident, now lending to at least ten pages, while recollecting those three empty pages at the commencement of his investigation. He was pleased. Once finished he explains the finer points to his constable; “what do you think Turner?”

“I would say fact and concise,”

“It is enough to hang the man on the murder of Marcus Finn but I couldn’t budge him on that of Mr. Bryce.”

“You still believe he murdered Mr. Bryce?” Turner asks.

“I’m nothing but sure he is guilty but it is as well we got him for Finn, although Bryce’s murder would have been the cream on the milk of our investigation.”

“Will Mr. Hadley hang?”

“I would think not, he has now totally lost his mind, I should think he will be locked away somewhere until he departs this earth. One thing Turner, I don’t blame him for killing Mr. Bryce as that may have been a public service but that of Marcus Finn for taking a ride in Bryce’s boat, that I can’t forgive, and from what I am to understand even Bryce forgave Finn for that.”

Some days after Tom Hadley had been charged for the murder of Marcus Finn, O’Keefe called Dev to his office to explain what had eventuated. Dev arrived midmorning and was escorted through the rabbit warren that was Russell Street to the policeman’s office.

Turner showed Dev in.

“Mr. Gooding, come in and take a chair,” O’Keefe beckons wearing a smile that had been missing from the man since the commencement of his investigations.

Dev nervously sits displaying a lingering concern.

“How have you been since the incident?”

“I would say mostly cautious Mr. O’Keefe,”

“Did you sustain any lasting injury?”

“None,”

“I’ve asked you in to explain the situation with Mr. Thomas Hadley and if you may have anything to advance towards his business.”

“To be honest Mr. O’Keefe I hardly knew anything about his business,” which was a half truth but Dev though better of divulging the scanty information he had, lest it incriminated his past offences.

“I do know about your street dealings young man,” O’Keefe says.

Dev feels a wave of fear build deep within, rising to flush in his cheeks.

“Never mind the past Mr. Gooding, from what I understand they were but the antics of youth and you are now well considered by many.”

“Will Hadley be charged for attacking me?”

“No, that will not be taken further,”

“Oh! Why not?”

“To do so would only bring your character into question.”

Dev waited for an explanation but none was offered, instead the policeman continued to divulge what had eventuated during his search of Hadley’s house and the man’s condition since.

“Mr. Hadley has lost his mind and although charged with the murder of your friend Marcus Finn, he will not go to trial.”

“What Hadley killed Marcus?” Dev gasped.

“I believe he thought he was doing Mr. Bryce’s bidding and we have more than enough evidence to prove his involvement.”

“So who killed Bryce?” Dev asks.

“I am sure Mr. Hadley is also guilty of that crime but when questioned on the matter he simply laughed loudly and shouted profanities and now he has gone totally mute.”

“Then what will happen to Hadley?” Dev asks

“Don’t concern, he has been found insane and will be incarcerated without any hope of release.”

“So what now?” Dev asks.

“The case will be closed,” O’Keefe simply says and somewhat ceremoniously closes a large folder on his desk top.

Early afternoon Dev returned to Jolimont bolstered from his interview with O’Keefe and found Hubbard attending to lunch. “I hope your interview went well Mr. Gooding?” Hubbard asks as he prepares one of his famous lunchtime salads.

“Yes very well Mr. Hubbard,” Dev says.

“Mr. Nevis is in the drawing room and I’m sure eager to hear all.”

On hearing Dev’s voice Toby comes to the kitchen door.

“You have returned,” He says.

“It seems so,”

“How was the interview?”

“Good but I’m pleased it is over,”

“So Mr. Hadley is to be incarcerated for the term of his life,” Toby says.

“How did you know?”

“It is front page of this morning’s Argus.”

“I hope I wasn’t mentioned,” Dev gasps.

“Don’t fear, it only mentioned the murder of your friend Marcus Finn and suggested killing of Bryce, his attack on you obviously wasn’t worth reporting.”

“To me it was,” Dev snapped as he would have appreciated that crime to be listed against Hadley.

“I am sure it is best left alone Dev, as Hadley suggested you tried to solicit him for sex.”

“What! That’s a lie!”

“You know that, I also and Mr. O’Keefe but if the newspapers found out it would have been front page and not Hadley.”

Dev calmed a little, “I suppose you are correct,”

“Now what?” Toby asks.

“Life goes on, I have the horticultural practical finals next week, after which I’ll sit back and consider.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Truthfully Toby I am clueless, after the incident with Hadley I’ve felt a little shallow as if there is a dark shadow hovering over me.

“Would you like me to set you up in some business?”

“What sort of business,”

“Gardening, you could manage people’s gardens, or possibly a shop selling plants and gardening tools.”

“I can’t take your money Toby,”

“It could be considered a long term loan if that is what concerns you.”

“I don’t know, too much has gone by over the past year or so for me to think that far ahead.”

Dev’s answer gave Toby a measure of concern, as they may have misjudged the situation in using Dev as a lure to draw Hadley out. It had been O’Keefe’s request but even with assurance Dev would be safe, if the officers following were but yards further away, seconds slower in response he may have lost Dev. Toby gave a shudder and tried to chase the thought away. “Sorry,” he whispered somewhat rhetorically.

“What for?” Dev asked.

“For allowing the police to use you in that way, it was careless of me.”

“I’m over it and I don’t blame you Toby.”

“There’s no need to, I blame myself.”

Football season was drawing to an end without the climax of a final game. It was suggested to have a play off between the top four teams but instead the association settled for proportional points system, with each team playing a set number of games. At the end of the season the winner would be the team that accumulated the highest amount of points and with the final game to be played that week, victory was already awarded to Essendon Town accumulating sixty-six points, with Geelong the runner-up. Dev’s Collingwood hadn’t been in the running but they had only recently formed from the Old Britannia, calling their team the Magpies and were still building. There was a joke that circulated each football season being what was big and green and ate magpies, the answer being the Melbourne Cricket Ground, or any other football ground where Collingwood chanced to play.

To a new chum, a name for one fresh to the colony, there would be confusion. Why an oval ball may be asked, possibly to match the oval of the ground that was designed for playing cricket and why four posts. A kick through the middle gave a goal and six points, the lesser to the sides giving one point, with lots of kicking, passing, running up and down the field and what is this thing called the ruck and who are the followers and forwards and who is barracking for whom – and where is the offside rule?

All along the city streets there was bunting in club colours while the hotels and bars filled with happy drinkers taking side bets on who would be successful in that final game or how many goals would be kicked, with accolades already given to Essendon’s Albert Thurgood being the hero for already kicking sixty-three goals in that season, out scoring his closes rival who managed but thirty-two goals.

September was also the month for the Melbourne Show, most popular as a diversion from the depress state of the colony. The first holding of the show was in forty-eight, with entries from as far away as Tasmania, bringing prize sheep, pigs and cattle across Bass Strait in boats to be judged best at show.

In the most it was a week to introduce the country to the city and share new ways in farming and animal husbandry. What brought the most interest was the wood cutting events and the many side shows, not forgetting Jimmy Sharman’s boxing tent with his call to those gathered about, who will take a glove, a round or two for a pound or two, while charging a shillings to view the matches, one and six pence to be at ring side. Many a brave, or possibly stupid young fellow, accepted the challenge, coming away with heavy bruising, or a broken nose within seconds of hearing the bell. Marquis of Queensberry rules would be declared, even so the fights were bare knuckled often causing much injury but no eye gouging, biting, hitting below the belt was permitted and let the best man win. Almost always it was Sharman’s man.

“Are you going to watch the last game of the season?” Toby asked Dev as they finished breakfast.

“Is Collingwood playing?”

“You know who is playing,”

“Nope, not interested,” Dev offers a cheeky smile.

“You’re a little one-eyed Dev,”

“Yep,”

“If I am at liberty to speak young man but I don’t see the sense in the game,” Hubbard says as he enters into the room.

“Why not Mr. Hubbard?” Dev questions.

“Give me true English football any day, or boxing that is a man’s sport,” Hubbard commences to clear the table.

“English football is much too slow Mr. Hubbard and some play a whole game without a single goal, no wonder there is riots in the stands.” Dev suggests and helps to clear the breakfast dishes.

“Possibly so but leave the dishes,” Hubbard says as he departs the room without wishing to argue such a point.

“What about going to the show?” Toby asks.

“Maybe, I like the horses when they do that prancing about,”

“Dressage,”

“Fancy name but clever, it is as if the rider and mount are of one mind.”

“I have to go myself, as Veronica wishes me to bid for two prize rams from Willaura Station in West Victoria,”

“Is Veronica coming down?” Dev asks.

“No she can’t find the time.”

“I like Veronica,” Dev admits.

“Would you like to give her a visit sometime soon?”

“Yes I would like that.”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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