The Dunbar Case(3)

There didn’t seem to be anything to say so I just nodded and got on with my meal. A few years back I’d had some dealings with an academic historian who became impassioned about his subject when there looked to be a chance of latching on to something new. Wakefield didn’t give off that kind of vibe, but from the way he settled down to cleaning his plate I sensed that he was working up to something important even if it didn’t seem to excite him overmuch.



We both sat back with empty plates and the last of the wine in our glasses.



‘The Dunbar story has been pretty well cut and dried for a long time,’ Wakefield said. ‘The wreck was only nine metres down and they located it early on. Divers retrieved various things in the 1960s. There’s an exhibition of relics in the Maritime Museum—worth a look, but only just—and the grave in the cemetery is a Newtown tourist feature. Do you want dessert or coffee?’



‘Coffee, please, but what I really want is for you to give me some idea of the relevance of all this to me. It’s very interesting but…’



‘You’re right, I’ve let myself get off track. I understand you were in the army.’



‘A long time ago.’



‘Where, if I may ask?’



‘Here and there.’



‘And you were a boxer?’



‘Amateur.’



‘And you were in gaol?’



‘Again, a while back. Where is this heading?’



‘I need someone who’s resourceful, discreet and experienced at dealing with the rougher elements in society.’



‘To do what?’



‘To find someone and persuade them to give something up for a fair price.’



‘There’s no such thing as a fair price, Professor, there’s—’



‘Henry.’



‘—only a matter of what it’s worth to whoever’s selling and whoever’s buying.’



He drained his glass and beamed—the first full-blown emotional reaction I’d seen from him. ‘That’s splendid, worthy of some of my colleagues in the Business School. Very pithy. You said coffee. Long black?’



I nodded. He ordered two from the waiter, who cleared the table. He leaned forward as if wary about being overheard, although the space between the tables and the buzz of sound in the place made our conversation private.



‘There was another survivor,’ he said.





~ * ~





2





Wakefield reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a fat wallet and selected a card which he passed over to me as the long blacks arrived. The card had the university’s embossed coat of arms and motto and carried his name and titles, including ‘Director of the Center for Australian Historical Revision’.



I read the card, sipped the coffee. ‘C-e-n-t-e-r?’



He shrugged. ‘For the Americans. We have a fresh approach that appeals to our corporate supporters here and abroad. A determination to take an entirely new look at the major signposts in this country’s history.’



‘The Dunbar’s a major signpost?’



‘Perhaps not, but it offers a chance to put the centre on the map because I believe there was another survivor and a manuscript that offers a different version of events. If I can secure it, quite apart from its not insignificant monetary value, it’d lend credibility to the enterprise I’ve staked my career on. I make no bones about that. I was lucky to get this appointment and I’ll only be able to hold it if I show results. The backers, shall we call them, are impatient people.’



‘You need a win?’



‘I do. And I need your help.’



It was a tricky moment. I hoped he wasn’t one of those revisionists who wanted to say that only a few Aborigines were killed on the frontiers, that the White Australia policy never existed and that Australia was in danger of German invasion in 1914. But my newly revived agency wasn’t doing too well in a year of local disasters like the Christchurch earthquake, the floods and the demolition of the ALP in the recent state election, and I couldn’t afford to turn down work from someone with a wallet that size. I had office rent and a six-figure mortgage to cover. And, as a sucker for Sydney history, I found the story interesting.



‘I’m listening, Henry,’ I said.



He finished his coffee. The wallet was still on the table and he took out a credit card. ‘Let’s set the scene,’ he said, ‘a post-prandial stroll to the cemetery.’



~ * ~



It was late in March, a month when Sydney can decide it’s time for winter to take a grip or, like that day, can bring on spring early. We joined the young and the old, the freaks and the suits, walking along King Street past the boutiques and eateries and turned down Church Street.