The Dunbar Case(6)

‘You got my email?’



‘Yes, I can’t open the attachment.’



‘Of course not. You need a password.’



‘I tried Dunbar just for fun.’



He chuckled. ‘The password is Twizell.’ He spelled the word. ‘Call me when you’ve read what I’ve written.’



I opened the attachment. It had no heading and ran to twenty pages. Wakefield’s prose was functional rather than elegant:



Research has revealed that William Dalgarno Twizell may have survived the wreck on the Dunbar. Twizell was born in South Shields, Durham, 17/8/1808. A master mariner, who had captained vessels in the British merchant marine for twenty years, he was a skilled navigator who had also worked as a pilot in various ports around the world as a break from his captaincy responsibilities. He was fit, single and had taken passage on the Dunbarto Australia, where he had been several times before, to take up the command of a coastal trading vessel. He had no family connections in Australia. His body was not discovered after the wreck.



The document went on to say that a birth certificate had been discovered registering the birth of a Robert Dalgarno Twizell in Newcastle on 3 March 1883.The mother, Catharine Lucy Tanner, had registered the birth and the father’s name was given as William Dalgarno Twizell with the birth date of 17 August 1808; the birthplace was Durham, England. An entry on the certificate noted that the father was deceased.



Wakefield, or his students, had traced Robert Twizell, who appeared to have been a man of some means, the owner of a couple of ships and himself an experienced mariner. Robert Twizell married late and fathered a son and a daughter. The son, born in 1925, also Robert, did not prosper. He had a spotty criminal record as a youth, joined the 2nd AIF in 1944, was invalided out in 1945 and fought a long battle with the authorities over his entitlement to a serviceman’s pension. The matter was unresolved when he died of lung cancer in 1988.



I made some notes as I read, forgetting that I could print out the whole thing. Old habits die hard. Despite his claimed service disabilities—damage to hearing and eyesight and malaria contracted during his brief time in the catering corps in New Guinea—Twizell married and had three sons, all born close together in the early 1970s. One son, Robin, was drowned off Newcastle beach in 1980; another, Hunter, was killed in a car accident when driving drunk after his father’s funeral in 1988. The surviving son, John Dalgarno Twizell, was in gaol.





~ * ~





3





I rang the university when I’d finished reading and asked for Professor Wakefield in the History Department.



‘History? Oh, that’d be Human Studies, I suppose,’ the switchboard operator said. ‘I’ll put you through.’



‘Wakefield.’



‘This is Hardy.’



‘Good. Well?’



‘It’s compelling.’



‘I imagine you have questions.’



‘A few. No death certificate for William Twizell, I take it?’



‘No. He must have used another name.’



‘Why would he do that?’



‘In your experience, why do people adopt other names?’



‘Because they have something to hide.’



‘Exactly. What you’ve read is just an outline. There’s a good deal more to tell you that I’m not prepared to commit to writing just at the moment. We should meet again and I’ll tell you more. Then we can get things on a business footing. I see you have an office in Pyrmont.’



‘That’s right.’



‘Not far from the Maritime Museum where the Dunbar exhibit is. I propose that we meet there.’



‘You’re assuming ... ?’



‘I’m assuming that you want me to sign a contract, agree to your terms, pay you a retainer, and enlist your help on this fascinating project.’



I didn’t like him or his manner but the curiosity bug had bitten me. I said that I’d hold off until he’d told me a bit more and I’d bring a contract with me.



‘That’s reasonable,’ he said.



We agreed to meet at the Maritime Museum at 2pm.



He tried for a light touch. ‘There’s no admission fee. You can’t claim it as an expense.’



‘I might decide to make the deal retrospective to the beginning of our meeting yesterday. Charge you for the time and research.’



‘Touché,’ he said.



~ * ~



I remember when Darling Harbour was a derelict jumble of disused goods lines, sagging sheds and machinery rusted beyond recognition. They got to work in the late ‘80s and transformed it into the people-friendly precinct it is now. It’s money-friendly too, of course. A flat white’ll set you back four bucks and what it costs to hire one of the display areas or conference set-ups I don’t like to think. But the layout, with the paved walkways, the water features and grassy bits, is tasteful and calming, a big plus in a modern city.