Published: 23 Jun 2022

The early afternoon was warm and walking pleasant but even on reaching the river and crossing Princes Bridge, Jones hadn’t offered up his bother, although on a number of occasions he drew in a deep breath with intention to speak, only to release it despondently.

“I’ve been thinking of Marcus,” Jones eventually speaks.

“Yes it was an awful way to go.”

“Is there a good way Dev?” Jones scoffs at the suggestion.

“I suppose not, possibly in your sleep.”

At the south end of the bridge Jones paused and leans over the railing almost at tipping point.

“Watch it,” Dev warns and pulls Jones back.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Jones says.

“It would to me.”

Jones rights himself and moves from the bridge rail.

“You’ve met Alf?” Jones eventually asks. It was most unlike Doug to call his father by his given name, appearing as if the lad was attempting to disassociate from his father.

“Many times but you know that – why do you ask?”

“You know he can be a little weird at times?”

“I’ve never noticed,” Dev lied not wishing to further upset his friend by stating the obvious.

“Bullshit Dev, he’s weird and everyone knows it,”

“What has happened?”

“He lost it last weekend, came home drunk and after raging for a time he started slapping me about.”

Jones fell quiet as if he was searching for the correct words.

“This time I hit him back. Not hard mind you but enough to shake him and instead of fighting me off he sat in a corner crying.”

Jones stood silently watching the river before taking an even deeper breath and clearing his throat with a gentle cough. He was solemn but not to tears, as so much had happened over so many years he had lost the ability to cry.

The two walked quietly for a while towards the Botanic Gardens and it was some minutes before Jones again spoke.

“He was there all night and even in the morning he wouldn’t budge although he was no longer crying, simply giving a dumb smile and nodding his head.”

“Then what happened?”

“I went for the foundry manager and he called the doctor who took him away.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The manager said I could stay until this Saturday then I would have to leave, as there will be another night watchman needing the shed.

“I thought the foundry was merging with another?”

“It didn’t go through,”

“Where will you stay?”

“Luck’s old man said I could stay there until I find somewhere else to live.”

On approaching the gardens Jones became distracted. Continuing into the grounds; he gives a smile and points towards a tree. “Do you know what that tree represents?” he asks.

“Firewood I suppose,”

“It is called the Separation Tree and under it Victoria was proclaimed a separate colony from New South Wales forty years ago.”

“I didn’t realize you were interest in that sort of thing Douglas.”

“My dad told me. He wasn’t always crazy.”

Dev remained quiet allowing his friend to tell his story in his own time.

“He was once a teacher you know but that was before I met you.”

“Really, I never knew.”

“He lost his work and not being able to teach he lost it all. It was long ago and mother was alive back then.”

Dev allowed his friend to continue working through his bother.

“He was sacked as he gave one of his pupils a thrashing for talking in class. It was said he kept on going even when the boy fell silently to the floor. They said he had a violent disposition and should never be around children.” Jones approached the tree and patted its trunk, “not everyone is as solid as this old girl and believed to be three hundred years old.”

“You seem to know a lot about the tree,”

“Again dad told me. He did have his good periods. Sometimes he could be as gentle as a lamb then out of a sunny day came the storm and with it a good thrashing, or other.”

“Or other?” Dev questions.

“I think you can guess the other.”

Dev was seeing a side of his friend he had not witnessed before and if anything at that moment felt closer to Doug than at any time.

“What will you do Doug?”

“That is a good question, I’ll stay at Luck’s for a few weeks; rent my arse down the docks. Possibly catch a ship to those foreign parts we hear about. Maybe visit your Devon that you were named after.” As he spoke the mood appeared to lift from Jones, “well there you go, that’s my life in a couple of sentences but it’s mine and all I have.”

“What will happen with your father?”

“He’s been locked way, the doctor said he’s beyond help. In some ways it’s a relief, I guess you realize he’s been abusing me since I can remember, possibly that is why I do the docks. In a way I do it to take away the feel of him in me while placing the blame on someone else.” Jones turned from the tree and sat on a nearby seat.

“Are you attracted to men, or do it only for the money,” Dev asks.

“Both I suppose,”

“I think I always knew that Doug.”

“At first I felt degraded and hated him, then I accepted his advances as love and now I simply love being taken.”

“I do understand,”

“No you don’t Dev and can’t and never will but that doesn’t matter as I know you will always be my chum.”

“I will Doug, I promise you that.”

“I may need that promise some day.” Doug smiles, “come on mate away from all this, the sun is out and we are alive.”

That was the week of worry in the Argus news, there had been an outbreak of disease in Marvellous Melbourne given the exotic title of Russian Flu and already more than a hundred inhabitants of the city had succumb to its pestilence and was more concerning for those living in poverty, as it appeared to spread quickly through the slums where people were often sharing two or three families to a dwelling.

The flu had started its journey sometime during the previous year in the Russian region of Bukhara and spread quickly along Europe’s extensive railways system, giving the disease quick access to all of Europe. With developing world trade and shorter sea voyages it soon crossed the oceans at will, becoming one more concern for the city’s inhabitants, alongside Colonial Fever which was ramped in a mostly unsewered city, amongst people lacking understanding it to be Typhoid.

The new pestilence brought back memory of earlier in the century when Melbourne, as much of the southern continent was scourged by smallpox, said to have whipped out three quarters of the native population in some areas. It was suggested the natives had been caught in a pincer movement, firstly obtaining smallpox in the tropical north from Macassan fishermen from the Indonesian archipelago, then later with the first settlement in New South Wales and other colonies as European influence advanced.

What was odd about the spread of smallpox in New South Wales at the time of the first settlement, being not one of the British military or the convicts had registered as infected, even after such a long journey at sea. Some believe it may have been introduced by the French when the explorer La Perouse sailed into Botany Bay with his two ships the La Boussole and L’Astrolabe. La Perouse stayed for but a short while, believing he would find a flourishing British settlement but finding none, he soon departed but not before harrying strife with the natives. La Perouse and his two ships were never again heard from. It was believed they hit rocks and broke up in the Santa Cruz Islands and discovered to be so to two centuries later.

It had been three months since the first death from Russian Flu in Melbourne and to date most of the fatalities were around the port areas and in overcrowded parts of the city proper. Collingwood had to a degree been spared but some areas butting against Fitzroy and the city were badly influenced.

Ilene concerned for her boys, firstly with Jack working close by the river, as it was suggested by those leaning towards conspiracy theories that the flu and Colonial Fever were caused by dampness lifting from the water or airborne as miasma. She also concerned for Devon as he spent much of his day mingling with the so named larrikins from the poorer areas, who travelled from one region to another in disregard.

There had been one death in the street, an old lady, Mrs. Nowak who was declared Russian but was actually Polish and reported to have been related to Pawel Strzelecki who was the first recorded ascender of Mount Kosciuszko, the continent’s highest mountain. Strzelecki named the mountain after his cultural and political hero, Tadeusz Kosciuszko and although no English born could pronounce the name, never mind spell it, the mountain remained with that title. Even so many suggested giving the mountain its native name, Tar-gan-gil but seeing that was as unpronounceable as Kosciuszko, Strzelecki’s suggestion remained.

Another misleading theory being, as the flu had its origin in Russia, only Europeans could come down with it and seeing those from the British Isles and their descendants were not considered European they would be safe. Such beliefs were quite common, even after some of those who died had names such as Smith, Williams, Jones, O’Riley and others of Irish and Scottish origin.

During Mrs. Nowak’s pestilence, Ilene had sent Dev to visit her with a bowl of bouillon being the juice left over after preparing her meager meal of soup bones and root vegetables. It wasn’t much but was all she could afford to give.

At the door Dev called and knocked half expecting silence, thinking she may have already succumb and was sitting in her chair decaying into the fabric.

“Who is it?” the woman’s croaked voice sounded in a thick accent through the closed door.

“It’s Devon Mrs. Nowak, mum has sent down some soup for you.”

“Leave it at the door and thank your mother.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Dev called while desiring a negative response not to have to enter.

“No leave it there; I will get it in a little while.”

The next morning Ilene sent Dev to retrieve the pot but he found it remained with the soup untouched at the door. He knocked and called but there wasn’t any answer. Assuming the worse he told his mother.

“The poor woman must have passed in the night,” Ilene suggested.

“I guess so, there was a window slightly open to the front room and I called through but I didn’t wish to enter.”

“No best not to, I’ll go and let Doctor West know later this morning.” Ilene took a deep breath and looked lovingly upon Dev she feared for his wellbeing, “I do hope you are careful.”

Dev could see her concern, “don’t worry mum, I’ll be fine,” he assured.

“You do mix with so many,”

“Almost always outdoors,”

“If it’s miasma it will be in the air.”

“I’ll be alright besides I read in the Argus some boffin said it a germ or something.”

“That is the trouble these days.” Ilene sighs.

“What so mum?”

“There are too many experts,”

O’Keefe had been at his desk all morning mulling over a report on a masked hold up of the goldsmith business Rosenthal Aronson in Little Collins Street. The robbery had been in broad daylight and daring as there were three customers in the shop at the time and a busy street outside. As O’Keefe had sent his constable out to gather more information from the premises he placed the report aside while pushing back into his chair for a moment of contemplation.

Often in his spare time O’Keefe would allow his thoughts to return to the demise of Marcus Finn. It wasn’t that the policeman held admiration towards the lad and after visiting his parents it was more than obvious they were glad to see the back of young Marcus but even a larrikin of little value to society deserved his full investigation.

Originally O’Keefe believed Finn may have been done in by Bryce but discovering Bryce had been out of Victoria at the time, it could not have been him. Even so Bryce could have ordered the killing from one of his gang and done in retaliation, as O’Keefe had information relating to Finn’s stealing of Bryce’s skiff, while leaving it on the beach close to Saint Kilda. There was also mention of Bryce offering a reward for the return of the skiff as well as the whereabouts of Marcus Finn. Then again he wasn’t prepared to totally discredit Bryce as it was possible he broke journey and doubled back but that would be much bother for a man who was quite obviously open with his treatment of anyone who crossed him.

O’Keefe took a deep disappointing breath as a knock came to his office door. He was pleased with the distraction as he wasn’t getting anywhere with who killed Marcus Finn.

“Come in Turner, what did you discover at the goldsmiths?”

“Mr. Rosenthal supplied a rough description of the bandits but as they were masked it is quite brief, mostly hight and clothing and one had a foreign accent, possibly Italian.”

“I see,” O’Keefe says and drifts away from the constable’s recounting.”

“You appear bothered Mr. O’Keefe,”

“I was thinking about the Finn murder,”

“There isn’t a great deal to go on,” Turner admits.

“I keep mulling back to that of Stanley Bryce but he was away in Sydney, the porter at Spencer Street remembers seeing him on the train as it pulled out.”

“He may have left the train at another station and come back,”

“Possibly but I don’t think so, it seems too contrived for a man who is supposed to be somewhat ruthless.”

The constable remained silent allowing O’Keefe to continue.

“Where are Finn’s belongings?” O’Keefe asks.

“In a box down stairs in the evidence room,”

“Go and get them for me and let’s have another look.”

After a short while the constable returned with a small box, “there isn’t much I’m afraid,” he says as he placed the box onto the desk.

O’Keefe removes each item in turn and announces them loudly.

“One badly stained shirt, could be old blood; all but one of the buttons missing.

“Trousers torn at both knees; no buttons and fixed at the front with a loop of wire.

“Three pennies,”

“One French two centime coin being of little value, if any at all.”

“One blade four inches in length with a homemade wooden handle; quite sharp with a broken point.

O’Keefe pauses, “no underwear,”

“That is common with the poor,” Turner admits,

“Not a lot is there?”

“He was but a street kid,” Turner says.

O’Keefe rumbles through the trouser pockets; “you can learn much from what a young man has in his pockets,” he says.

“So what does Marcus Finn’s pockets tell you?” Turner asks with humoured attitude.

“Nothing,”

“Hello, what is this?” O’Keefe collects a small square of blue material from the bottom of the box.

“That was hooked on the wire holding his trousers together,” Turner admits.

“It could be important evidence, why wasn’t it mentioned in the notes,”

“I couldn’t say,”

“Where do you think it came from?”

Not having any idea Turner keeps to his silence.

“It appears to be shirt material and could come from his assailant.”

“That is true Mr. O’Keefe,”

“I’ll take it to that tailor in Flinders Lane by the haberdashery and see what he has to offer,”

“Would you like me to do so for you?”

“No I’ll do so on my way home but what I would like is for you to see if you can find out more about Mr. Bryce’s associates.”

Flinders lane was somewhat congested with young lads playing a game they called French cricket, while dodging the carts and Hansom cabs. One of the boys hit the ball hight and was caught by O’Keefe as he passed by. “Out,” O’Keefe cried but the lads didn’t appear too pleased with his catch or declaration.

“Can we have out ball back mister,” A lad asks.

O’Keefe tosses the ball back.

“You lot, take you ball and go play in the park, as I don’t want anyone turning up as a file on my desk in the morning.”

To a lad they gave him impertinence and quickly regrouped to the top end of the lane before he could take the matter further.

“No parental control,” he mumbled.

‘A good tanning across the arse would fix their wagons,” he thinks, even so he wasn’t a violent man and having no children of his own was lacking in what was considered to be parental control, other than the strict letter of the written law.

O’Keefe entered into the small tailoring shop and approached a stooped balding man holding a marking pencil behind his right ear, while cautiously cutting a length of cloth. The man paused and spoke, “One moment if you please sir.”

“Continue what you are doing, I’m in no hurry,”

The tailor completes his cutting, “may I be of assistance sir,” he asks while carefully folding the cloth aside.

“That you may my good man, is the tailor in?”

“That would be myself, can I fit you up with a new suit, possibly sir would prefer it in the Italian style. I have only this week received some fine cloth from that country and a set of the latest suit patterns.”

“Not a suit but some information, I am Sergeant O’Keefe from Russell Street.”

“I thought you were familiar, Charles Stephenson at your service Mr. O’Keefe,”

“Then Mr. Stephenson, I would like you to have a look at this for me,” O’Keefe removed the scrap of material from his pocket and passes it to the tailor.

The tailor accepted, “what would you wish to know Mr. O’Keefe?”

“For a start your opinion from where it was torn,”

“I can do more than that,”

“Then I would be truly in your debt.”

“It would have been from a shirt, Manchester mills for a certainty and high quality, being made up by Harry Stafford in Fitzroy.”

“You can say that with certainty Mr. Stephenson?”

“I can, this would be from an expensive garment not your usual working shirt and only a few shops in the city stock such product.”

“Do you by chance stock them?”

“No it would only be the more elite shops, those that don’t display prices and personally deliver. Your best chance is to go to Harry Stafford himself.”

“And where would I find this Mr. Stafford?”

“He has a small outlet on Victoria Street in Fitzroy almost opposite the Fitzroy Gardens,”

O’Keefe left the shop and continued towards home somewhat bolstered by the information, so much so he smiled kindly towards the children now playing at the top end of the lane, without reproaching them further. Finally he may have a clue in who killed Marcus Finn, believing by the design of the man’s shirt he was well heeled and not some ruffian gangster.

Stan Bryce had heard O’Keefe was gleaning information on him and the Firm but what O’Keefe didn’t know, although he believed there was corruption at the station, Bryce had retainers at Russell Street and to coin a phrase, while the fox was observing the henhouse, the rooster was watching the fox. In some ways the police observance of his business worked in the Firm’s advantage, as it gave opportunity to finetune their methods. It also allowed Bryce feedback on his corporals and how their loyalty held.

What did concern Bryce was his closest confident appeared to be working against him. He would love to be rid of Tom Hadley but to dismiss him may create a second push in the area and open warfare between gangs, while to do him in would be a little obvious.

Bryce thought of inviting Hadley away to some country retreat without sharing the knowledge with others and once there top him. Again if he issued such an invitation it would be possible Hadley may share knowledge of the trip with others, or not wish to take up on such an offer. There was another way, he could have one of his police retainers attempt arrest and have Hadley shot and killed during his attempt to escape. Such a plan may work but who could he trust at Russell Street to perform the operation, as most answered to both he and Hadley.

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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