Published: 9 Jun 2022

There was much caution as Dev followed along Rae Street towards Bryce’s residence. What would his reception be, would Bryce be receptive, or possible associate him with Marcus Finn and turn on him as well.

At the door he pauses, takes a deep breath then bravely knocks.

The sound of knuckles upon heavy wooden panels echoes along the narrow hallway beyond.

Quiet calculated footsteps.

Moments later the door opens.

“Mr. Gooding,” Bryce says his tone displaying much surprise, while he nervously scans the street for anyone about. “Whatever it is you want best to come in as you never know who is lurking and I don’t do business on the doorstep.”

Without further Bryce escorts the lad into the front room.

Dev’s first impression is the room lacks clutter and the air is sterile, even his breath in such an atmosphere would appear polluting. He removes his cap and holds it over a large greasy stain on his trousers.

“To what do I owe the honor of your company?” Bryce calmly enquires with a warm smile, while making a hand gesture for Dev to be seated.

Dev nervously fiddles, “no thank you Mr. Bryce, what I’ve come about will only take a moment of your time.”

“Whisky?”

“No thank you,” Dev notices a number of bottles to the side of a drink’s stand. He smiles, realising the label is the same as those missing from a shipment at Station Dock.

Bryce pours himself a large measure, “again I ask, why the visit, is it anything to do with your mate Finn, or are you looking for work?”

“Neither sir,”

“Then come on explain your visit, I have lots to do this morning.” The wall clock slowly sounded out ten strokes as he spoke as if it was proclaiming the man’s urgency to leave.

“Do you know Franklyn Lane?” Dev asks.

“I do,”

“Someone has scribbled on a brick wall in the lane,”

“So?”

“It is about you,”

Now Bryce is obviously curious and in being so, allows Dev to settle while forgetting his urgency to depart.

“What does it say?”

“It suggests you are a shirt lifter,” once spoken Dev allows a cheeky grin, he was gaining confidence.

Bryce commences to laugh; “shirt lifter, he repeats much amused by the expression.”

“Well actually it says sodomite.”

“Sodomite you say?” Bryce gives a discrediting huff.

“Yes but they spelt the word incorrectly as they have your name, still it obviously refers to you,” Dev pauses and quickly attaches, “I tried to scrub it out with a stone but only made it more noticeable.”

Bryce’s face scowls.

“Sorry I wasn’t trying to mock you,”

Bryce lightens, “no not you kid, you did correct.” Bryce goes to a side table and opens a drawer. He returns to Dev; “Here you go,” he passes a half sovereign to Dev; “have this for your trouble.”

Dev’s face lights with delight and disbelief as he receives the money but almost as quickly the elation fades as he passes back the shiny gold coin.

“No Mr. Bryce I didn’t come here wanting payment, that isn’t my temperament.”

“Temperament?” Bryce humorously repeats.

“Well character if you wish.”

“Keep it kid, although by your attitude I think you have a further question to ask?” Brice curiously continues.

“No sir,”

“I can see it in your eyes. You know lad, if you learn to read people’s eyes doing so can be most useful.”

Dev remained silent.

“It is about your mate Marcus Finn – am I correct?”

“I did wonder,” Dev says.

“Yes you remain believing it was me who did him in – again I’m correct – yes?”

“As I said, I did wonder,” Dev was becoming brave but fell short of agreeing to Bryce’s involvement.

Bryce glances at the wall clock, “you can’t totally believe it was me or you wouldn’t have the balls to come here.” Bryce collects his wallet and commences to make his departure, “come on I’ll show you out as I’m already late.” He directs Dev towards the door. “No lad it wasn’t me as I was about to offer Finn work, besides I was half the way to Sydney when it occurred.”

“Offer Marcus work Mr. Bryce?” Dev curiously repeats.

“It was only a thought at the time. What do you think of the idea?” Bryce was testing the lad’s merit. Bryce closes the door behind but neither notice they are being observed from the corner of the narrow street.

“I had known Marcus for many years but I don’t know if he had qualities towards working.”

“What was he unreliable?”

“More like unable to think things through without going off half-cocked and could never keep a confidence.”

“It was ever only a thought but possibly in the future I may have work for you. I believe I can trust you to keep this meeting and what I’ve said to yourself.”

“You can trust me Mr. Bryce.”

“Yes Dev I believe I can.”

O’Keefe had been forming a dossier on Stan Bryce, having discovered much about the man’s past but little about his present. Bryce was turning twenty-five, wealthy although without obvious means, dressed immaculately and had his clothes tailored even down to his stockings and shoes, Bryce was also popular with women but never appeared to be with the same woman for any length of time and although his speaking voice was towards street, when in refined company he spoke well with a polished London accent, yet his origins were unknown to anyone but the man himself.

What was also discovered by O’Keefe, Bryce was once known to Steve Hart who was a confidant of the bushranger Ned Kelly and member of the Kelly gang. There wasn’t any suggestion Bryce had anything to do with the gang’s antics as he was but a young lad at the time, hardly old enough to control a horse at speed, let alone shoot a gun with any accuracy, only that he was somewhat close and personal with Steve Hart and the suggestion about was they were more than hand shaking acquaintances.

As for Steve Hart it was known he often dressed as a woman and rode sidesaddle, although suggested he only did so to avoid detection but even when the Kelly gang held up the town of Jerilderie and while Ned was penning his famous Jerilderie Letter, it was reported by some of the town’s folk held captive, that Steve Heart dressed in women’s clothing and danced a merry jig with others of the gang. O’Keefe gave a huff as he calculated the age of Bryce during his alleged mateship with Hart and quickly discredited any guilt as Bryce would have been but thirteen at the time Heart died in the siege at the Glenrowan Inn.

O’Keefe sat at his desk arranging the developing dossier on Stan Bryce, while mulling over how to further approach the situation. Firstly was there any connection with the bootmaker in Errol Street and his alleged threat by the mysterious Mr. Kycey’, now believed to have been Bryce. If so was there association with the fire in Abbotsford Street, other than they were both cobblers and being threatened by some gang. Now there was a further addition to his file on the mysterious Mr. Bryce, being the message scrawled on the brickwork in Franklyn Lane.

Was it but a child’s prank?

Possibly it was revenge of sorts? If so it was somewhat opaque and childlike.

Also if the scribbler was affiliated with Bryce, had the slant been to discredit the man, or was it simply from a rival gang, as it was common place to cause disquiet in a rival’s ranks.

During the early morning O’Keefe had placed his constable in plain clothing to spy on the Bryce residence and discover the man’s daily routine. Now while waiting for Turner to report back, he contemplated the scant information he had been able to assemble on Bryce.

‘A cautious man,’ O’Keefe thinks.

‘Why should an honest man need so much caution?’

‘What of his wealth without any obvious means?’

‘He is but a ghost within the city and that in a man leads to suspicion,’

A gentle knock to the door and a light cough brings O’Keefe from his thoughts. “Turner come in, have you anything to report?”

The constable enters, his expression obviously lacking success. “Not a lot I’m afraid, Mr. Bryce went out early but was cleaver not to be followed. On one occasion he led me to a coffee shop in Errol Street where he partook of refreshments but didn’t converse with anyone except the waiter. I believe he may have known he was being followed, as after his coffee he spoke to the waiter and I believe departed the premises from the rear door.”

“Oh well, we will have to keep digging, everyone makes mistakes eventually.”

Turner gives a frown, “he did have one visitor but it could be nothing.”

“There is no such thing as nothing, Turner.”

“It was a kid, I’d say seventeen, maybe eighteen but he only stayed for five minutes and left with Mr. Bryce but in the opposing direction.”

O’Keefe became interested, “did you recognize the lad?” “Not as such, although I believe he could be one from that larrikin push from Collingwood, I don’t recollect his name but at one time I saw him with Marcus Finn down by Flinders Street Station when a constable was giving them warning about loitering.’

O’Keefe was commencing to widen his suspicions; from the German in Errol Street to the cobbler burned out in Abbottsford Street, the scribbling in Franklyn Land and now the demise of Marcus Finn. He was beginning to package it all as one but was cleaver enough not to jump to conclusions without facts and proof but what was obvious the lad Finn appeared to the thread throughout his entire investigation.

“Do you want me to keep an eye on Mr. Bryce tomorrow Mr. O’Keefe?” Turner asks.

“No, you said he is onto you. Leave it for now and I’ll do a little afterhours snooping myself.”

“I could have one of the beat constables keep a lookout if you like,”

“Again no, keep this to yourself for now.”

“Why so Mr. O’Keefe?”

“All I will say is somehow the villains appear to have warning before we make a raid.”

“Are you saying some of our constables are corrupt?”

“Possibly but as I said, also keep that quiet.”

“Where are you going?” Jones asks Dev as their paths crossed in the Carlton Gardens by the great palace like edifice that was the Exhibition Hall. The building was erected for the World Trade Exhibition ten years previously in Renaissance style and cruciform plan. Although the hall was erected to temporary hold the great antipodean exhibition of eighteen-eighty it was in true Victorian design and built to last for centuries. The dome was so large it was believed to rivaled Saint Peter’s in Rome and Saint Paul’s in London but in truth only measured their grandeur by half, yet to credit it was one of the few venue’s of its type anywhere that had electric lighting.

“I don’t have any plans;” Dev answers while momentarily pausing by an ornate fountain close by the building’s entrance. A slight breeze sprays cooling water from the fountain across their faces. They move away.

“Make a suggestion,” Jones encourages.

“There is an exhibition of local and European furniture at the exhibition hall,” Dev suggests in comic relief.

“I don’t think so,” Jones scoffs.

“And plenty of pockets to pick,”

“I hear there is to be a tug-of-war contest at the hall tonight between some of the football teams,” Jones shares.

“Dunno’ but I do have something to tell,”

“What?”

Dev relates that what he had discovered on the wall in Franklyn Lane.

“If Bryce sees it I would say he will be spitting blood.”

“I have already told him,”

“What you visited Bryce?”

“I did,”

“What did he say?”

Dev shared most of his conversation with Stan Bryce, including the offer of work but not the money he gave. As for the money he had already given that to his mother, receiving the usual comment being, I guess I shouldn’t ask where it came from, with the usual answer being, ask no questions and there won’t be lies.

“If you work for Bryce, what about me and the Smith-street push?”

“I didn’t say I was going to work for him, only he offered. As for Marcus’ lot, they have mostly gone their own way and now it’s down to you, me Fisk and Luck.”

“Now ain’t that a fact, we should regroup and you can be tops,”

“Na I don’t have the balls for leading, besides by my reckoning there is always someone trying you out, look what happened to Marcus.”

“Do you think one of us did Marcus in?”

“No,”

“Then was it Bryce?”

“He said he didn’t and I almost believe him, besides he said he was traveling at the time and well away from the city.”

“Well who did?” Jones says.

“That is something I will leave to the wallopers to work out.”

Outside Potts Importers in Swanston Street the two spied Brian Fisk working a crowd that had gathered to watch an accident. A Hansom cab had lost a wheel spilling the driver and passenger onto the road amongst the horse dung, the rogue wheel then hooped its way across the street and through a tailors’ window, bringing a very angry shopkeeper onto the street.

As the gentleman passenger lifted dazed from the road his wallet fell from his coat pocket to the ground, Fisk was on it like a bird on a beetle and back into the crowd before anyone had realized. Now not only was the shopkeeper shouting abuse but also the passenger, while furiously searching for his missing wallet. “There was five pounds in there, a florin for anyone who finds it,” he called but the crowd quickly lost interest and any chance of the man retrieving his wallet.

The boys sidled up to Brian Fisk.

“We saw that,” Dev says being well impressed with his friend’s quick thinking and nimble action.

“Quick wasn’t I but he wasn’t truthful, it was less than a quid. Come on I’ll shout you both a beer down at Young and Jacksons,” Fisk offers as he dumps the now empty wallet into a pile of rubbish at the head of Turner Alley.

“More to point the shout is on the fellow whose wallet it was,” Dev corrected.

“Quite true, come on.”

On reaching Young and Jacksons the boys were met by the wrath of the Woman’s Temperance movement, as they picketed the main bar. Fisk led the way and commenced to push past a woman who was holding high a placard, while condemning the demon drink at the top of her shrilled voice.

“Young man, where are your manners!” the portly woman demanded as she placed her bulk between his advance and the public bar doorway. Fisk pushed his way past, knocking her placard to the pavement before he unceremoniously trampled across it to reach the bar, “I don’t need any, I just need a drink,” he loudly mouthed.

“You should be at school; or on your knees in church praying for guidance, not taking to the demon drink.” She shrieked as two of her associates quickly supported the woman by blocking the lad’s entrance.

“Come on Fisk, let’s go to Phoenix in Flinders Street, the old hags won’t be there,” Dev suggests.

Fisk and Dev commenced to move away.

Jones hesitated.

“Come on Jones Fisk encouraged.

“I’m not in the mood, I’ll see you later.”

“What’s wrong with Jones?” Fisk asks as Jones quickly departs their company.

“It’s his old man; he’s been giving him bother lately.”

“What I know of Alf, he’s always drunk and giving bother.”

“True but Doug doesn’t like to talk about it, so best left alone,” Dev warns.

“Someone should put Alf into the cops,”

“Where would Jones go if his old man is put away?”

“Living under the rail viaduct would be preferred than that shed with a madman.”

Stan Bryce had much to think about. He had visited Franklyn Lane with a small pot of paint and after reading the inscription painted over it but more concerning was the author and who would spell his name in such a way, or that of sodomite.

Firstly he thought it would have been young larrikins but they wouldn’t use such terminology and the only youth associated with the Firm, happened to be those associated with the Smith-street lot. Therefore as Dev had come to him with the information, he much doubted it would have been them.

Bryce had called a meeting with Tom Hadley for that evening and while waiting for his arrival had time to reflect on his second. He had also called in Worth and Bolt for response to the burning of the cobbler’s premises. Hadley arrived first and as usual had complaint towards Lenny Worth.

Bryce was growing tired of Hadley, losing confidence in his second and considered replacing him but Hadley knew too much and was known to have a vindictive nature, therefore it would need to be more than a sacking; it would be concrete boots in the bay, or a lime pit away from the city and not the first time such action had been arranged but never by himself.

If it came to Hadley’s ultimate removal then who in his Firm was eager to take Hadley’s place, possibly Joe Bolt, as Worth was inclined to drink too much and mouth off about his own importance. As Hadley arrived, Bryce put aside such thoughts but not entirely.

“I heard about the insult painted in Franklyn Lane,” Hadley innocently announced during a quiet moment before the others arrived.

“Who do you think did it?”

“I would say it was those kids from Collingwood,”

“Perhaps, as it was somewhat childish,” Bryce says knowing full well it was not. ‘How would Hadley know about Franklyn Lane as he lives in the opposite direction?’ Bryce mentally questions, ‘possibly he used it as a shortcut to Abbotsford Street,’ he thinks but wasn’t prepared to accept his own hypothesis.

“Did you see it?” Bryce asks hoping to catch Hadley out.

“No George Foster told me while I was at the Duke’s Tavern, he saw you painting it out while on his way to the pub.

“Yes I did see George but that aside for now.”

Before Bryce could continue he noticed something about Hadley. What it was he couldn’t place into language, possibly a glance, or a turning away from eye contact but it was enough to have Bryce continue conversation on the graffiti in Franklyn Lane.

“Tom how do you spell my name?” Bryce curiously enquires.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason, only I have been thinking of changing it. I’m becoming too well known.” It was weak reasoning but all Bryce could come up with when put on the spot.

Hadley paused, Brice I should think? he answers by spelling out the name with the letter I and not Y.

“Close enough. Then again I guess I’m stuck with it.” Bryce releases a forced laugh but his reasoning didn’t appear to sit well with Hadley.

There is a light tapping on the front door, “I’ll get it,” Hadley says dissolving the curiosity he was developing over Bryce’s question. Moments later he shows in Worth and Bolt in.

“You’re late,” Hadley says.

“Do you realize there is someone watching the house from across the street,” Bolt admits.

Bryce draws back the curtains enough to view the street, “I would say he’s a member of the establishment but I don’t recognize his face.”

“That is also my guess,” Bolt agrees.

“Also he’s been there most of the morning, some detective as he stands out like a pimple on a whore’s arse,” Bryce admits.

“I’ll go scare him off,” Bolt suggests.

“That will only increase whatever suspicions he has. No leave him standing there as he won’t learn much, besides it looks like rain and he’s not dressed for it.”

“I recognize him to be a sergeant down at Russell Street,” Hadley says after giving a second glance, “and according to one our retainers at the station,” he pauses and smiles at his use of the word retainer, “it is said he is incorruptible.”

Bryce gives a huff and turns to Worth, “now about the bootmaker?”

“Done,”

“Yes I heard about the fire but has it given others reason to comply,”

“There hasn’t been any bother since,” Worth admits.

“I’ve been thinking we could use some of Marcus Finn’s lot as cockys or as messengers.” Bryce suggests.

“Could any of them be trusted to keep their mouth shut?” Hadley asks.

“I think so; I’ve already approached one of their gang.”

“Who?” Hadley asks.

“By the way, has anyone heard anything on who did Finn in?” Bryce didn’t answer Hadley on who had been approached in the Smith-street gang, as he was still gauging his second’s loyalty.

“Nothing boss, not even a whisper but the story about is it was you,” Bolt admitted with a discrediting chuckle.

“I wanted the little scrote alive not dead, he may have been useful.”

“You can’t get much mileage out of a corpse,” Hadley says with a willful smile.

“Now isn’t that a fact Tom,” Bryce says his eyes narrowing as they often did when he was about to show aggression, ‘you are hiding something what could it be,’ Bryce thinks believing Hadley maybe covering his back by accusing Worth and he would need to examine the firm’s finances once alone.

Hadley backed away.

“Anyway he wouldn’t have been much use,” Worth says across the developing impasse between Hadley and Bryce.

“Who?” Bryce snaps away from his thought on Hadley.

“The Finn kid,” Worth says.

“And why do you say that?” Bryce asks.

“I met him a few times, he had a mouth that went off like a halfpenny cracker and he talked to himself.”

“You do that Lenny,” Hadley reckons.

“Possibly I do Tom but I don’t answer my own questions and argue the point.”

Bryce allows the rising tension in the room to settle by offering more drinks, only Worth accepts.

“Good whisky this,” Worth says.

“I’ve a mate on the docks,” Bryce admits with a wink.

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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